/  f  O 


7.5.3 


- 


THE  NEW  POETRY 

AN   ANTHOLOGY 


EDITED  BY 

HARRIET  MONROE 

AND 
ALICE  CORBIN  HENDERSON 

EDITORS   OF   POETRY 


fork 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1917 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1917, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  February,  1917.    Reprinted 
March,-April,  1917. 


NortoootJ 
Berwick  &  Smith  Co.,  Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


INTRODUCTION 

During  the  last  three  or  four  years  there  has  been  a  remarkable 
renascence  of  poetry  in  both  America  and  England,  and  an  equally 
extraordinary  revival  of  public  interest  in  the  art. 

The  editors  of  this  anthology  wish  to  present  in  convenient  form 
representative  work  of  the  poets  who  are  to-day  creating  what  is 
commonly  called  "the  new  poetry," — a  phrase  no  doubt  rash  and 
most  imperfectly  descriptive,  since  the  new  hi  art  is  always  the 
elder  old,  but  one  difficult  to  replace  with  any  form  of  words  more 
exact.  Much  newspaper  controversy,  and  a  number  of  special 
magazines,  testify  to  the  demand  for  such  a  book;  also  many  letters 
to  the  editors  of  Poetry  asking  for  information — letters  not  only 
from  individual  lovers  of  the  art,  but  also  from  college  professors 
and  literary  clubs  or  groups,  who  have  begun  to  feel  that  the  poetry 
of  to-day  is  a  vital  force  no  longer  to  be  ignored.  Indeed,  many 
critics  feel  that  poetry  is  coming  nearer  than  either  the  novel  or 
the  drama  to  the  actual  life  of  to-day.  The  magazine  Poetry, 
ever  since  its  foundation  in  October,  1912,  has  encouraged  this 
new  spirit  in  the  art,  and  the  anthology  is  a  further  effort  on  the 
part  of  its  editors  to  present  the  new  spirit  to  the  public. 

What  is  the  new  poetry?  and  wherein  does  it  differ  from  the 
old?  The  difference  is  not  in  mere  details  of  form,  for  much  poetry 
infused  with  the  new  spirit  conforms  to  the  old  measures  and 
rhyme-schemes.  It  is  not  merely  in  diction,  though  the  truly 
modern  poet  rejects  the  so-called  "poetic"  shifts  of  language — the 
deems,  'neaths,  forsooths,  etc.,  the  inversions  and  high-sounding 
rotundities,  familiar  to  his  predecessors:  all  the  rhetorical  ex- 
cesses through  which  most  Victorian  poetry  now  seems  "over- 
apparelled,"  as  a  speaker  at  a  Poetry  dinner — a  lawyer,  not  a 
poet — put  it  in  pointing  out  what  the  new  movement  is  aiming  at. 
These  things  are  important,  but  the  difference  goes  deeper  than  de- 
tails of  form,  strikes  through  them  to  fundamental  integrities. 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

The  new  poetry  strives  for  a  concrete  and  immediate  realization 
of  life;  it  would  discard  the  theory,  the  abstraction,  the  remoteness, 
found  in  all  classics  not  of  the  first  order.  It  is  less  vague,  less 
verbose,  less  eloquent,  than  most  poetry  of  the  Victorian  period 
and  much  work  of  earlier  periods.  It  has  set  before  itself  an  ideal 
of  absolute  simplicity  and  sincerity — an  ideal  which  implies  an 
individual,  unstereotyped  diction;  and  an  individual,  unstereo- 
typed  rhythm.  Thus  inspired,  it  becomes  intensive  rather  than 
diffuse.  It  looks  out  more  eagerly  than  in;  it  becomes  objective. 
The  term  "exteriority"  has  been  applied  to  it,  but  this  is  incom- 
plete. In  presenting  the  concrete  object  or  the  concrete  environ- 
ment, whether  these  be  beautiful  or  ugly,  it  seeks  to  give  more 
precisely  the  emotion  arising  from  them,  and  thus  widens  immeas- 
urably the  scope  of  the  art. 

All  this  implies  no  disrespect  for  tradition.  The  poets  of  to-day 
do  not  discard  tradition  because  they  follow  the  speech  of  to-day 
rather  than  that  of  Shakespeare's  time,  or  strive  for  organic  rhythm 
rather  than  use  a  mold  which  has  been  perfected  by  others.  On  the 
contrary,  they  follow  the  great  tradition  when  they  seek  a  vehicle 
suited  to  their  own  epoch  and  their  own  creative  mood,  and  reso- 
lutely reject  all  others. 

Great  poetry  has  always  been  written  in  the  language  of  con- 
temporary speech,  and  its  theme,  even  when  legendary,  has  always 
borne  a  direct  relation  with  contemporary  thought,  contemporary 
imaginative  and  spiritual  life.  It  is  this  direct  relation  which  the 
more  progressive  modern  poets  are  trying  to  restore.  In  this 
effort  they  discard  not  only  archaic  diction  but  also  the  shop-worn 
subjects  of  past  history  or  legend,  which  have  been  through  the 
centuries  a  treasure-trove  for  the  second-rate. 

This  effort  at  modern  speech,  simplicity  of  form,  and  authentic 
Xitality  of  theme,  is  leading  our  poets  to  question  the  authority  of 
the  accepted  laws  of  English  verse,  and  to  study  other  languages, 
ancient  and  modern,  in  the  effort  to  find  out  what  poetry  really  is. 
It  is  a  strange  fact  that,  hi  the  common  prejudice  of  cultivated 
people  during  the  four  centuries  from  just  before  1400  to  just 
before  1800,  nothing  was  accepted  as  poetry  in  English  that  did  not 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

j 

walk  in  the  iambic  measure;'  Bits  of  Elizabethan  song  and  of 
Dryden's  two  musical  odes,  both  beating  four-time  instead  of  the 
iambic  three,  were  outlandish  intrusions  too  slight  to  count.  To 
write  English  poetry,  a  man  must  measure  his  paces  according  to 
the  iambic  foot-rule;  and  he  must  mark  off  his  lines  with  rhymes,  or 
at  least  marshal  them  in  the  pentameter  movement  of  blank  verse. 

The  first  protest  against  this  prejudice,  which  long  usage  had 
hardened  into  law,  came  in  the  persons  of  four  or  five  great  poets — 
Burns,  Coleridge,  Keats,  Shelley,  Byron — who  puzzled  the  ears  of 
their  generation  with  anapaests  and  other  four-time  measures,  and 
who  carried  into  their  work  a  certain  immediacy  of  feeling  and 
imagery — a  certain  modern  passion  of  life — which  even  Cowper, 
Thompson  and  a  few  others  of  their  time,  though  they  had  written 
of  things  around  them,  had  scarcely  attained.  Quarterly  critics 
and  London  moralists  blinked  and  gasped,  but  at  last  the  bars 
had  to  go  down  for  these  great  radicals.  And  before  long  the 
extreme  virtuosity  of  Swinburne  had  widened  still  further  the 
musical  range  of  the  English  language. 

By  the  time  Whitman  appeared,  the  ear  of  the  average  reader — 
that  formidable  person — was  attuned  to  anapaests,  dactyls, 
jJiqriambics,  sappm'cs,  rhymed  or  unrhymed.  He  could  not  call 
them  by  name,  but  he  was  docile  to  all  possible  intricacies  of 
pattern  in  any  closely  woven  metrical  scheme.  But  Whitman  gave 

him  a  new  shock. Hexe.-ffias  a  so-called  poet  who  discarded  all 

traditional  patterns,  and  wove  a  carpet  of  his  own.  Once  more  the 
conservatives  protested:  was  this  poetry?  and,  if  so,  why?  If 
poetry  was  not  founded  on  the  long-accepted  metrical  laws,  then 
how  could  they  distinguish  it  from  prose,  and  thus  keep  the  labels 
and  catalogues  hi  order?  What  was  Whitman's  alleged  poetry  but 
a  kind  of  freakish  prose,  invented  to  set  forth  a  dangerous  anarch- 
istic philosophy? 

It  would  take  too  long  to  analyze  the  large  rhythms  of  Whit- 
man's free  verse;  but  the  mere  fact  that  he  wrote  free  verse  and 
called  it  poetry,  and  that  other  poets — men  like  Rossetti,  Swin- 
burne, Symonds,  even  the  reluctant  Emerson — seemed  to  agree 
that  it  was  poetry,  this  fact  alone  was,  in  the  opinion  of  the  con- 


vui  INTRODUCTION 

servatives,  a  challenge  to  four  centuries  of  English  poets.  And  this 
challenge,  repeated  by  later  poets,  compels  us  to  inquire  briefly 
into  the  origins  of  English  poetry,  in  the  effort  to  get  behind  and 
underneath  the  instinctive  prejudice  that  English  poetry,  to  be 
poetry,  must  conform  to  prescribed  metres. 

Chaucer,  great  genius  that  he  was,  an  aristocrat  by  birth  and 
breeding,  and  a  democrat  by  feeling  and  sympathy — Chaucer  may 
have  had  it  in  his  power  to  turn  the  whole  stream  of  English  poetry 
into  either  the  French  or  the  Anglo-Saxon  channel.  Knowing  and 
loving  the  old  French  epics  better  than  the  Norse  sagas,  he  nat- 
urally chose  the  French  channel,  and  he  was  so  great  and  so  be- 
loved that  his  world  followed  him.  Thus  there  was  no  longer  any 
question — the  iambic  measure  and  rhyme,  both  dear  to  the  French- 
trained  ears  of  England's  Norman  masters,  became  fixed  as  the 
standard  type  of  poetic  form. 

But  it  was  possibly  a  toss-up — the  scale  hung  almost  even  in  that 
formative  fourteenth  century.  If  Chaucer's  contemporary  Lang- 
land — the  great  democrat,  revolutionist,  mystic — had  had  Chau- 
cer's authority  and  universal  sympathy,  English  poetry  might 
have  followed  his  example  instead  of  Chaucer's;  and  Shakespeare, 
Milton  and  the  rest  might  have  been  impelled  by  common  practice 
to  use — or  modify — the  curious,  heavy,  alliterative  measure  of 
Piers  Ploughman,  which  now  sounds  so  strange  to  our  ears: 

In  a  somer  seson, 
When  softe  was  the  sonne, 
I  shoop  me  into  shroudes 
As  I  a  sheep  weere; 
In  habite  as  an  heremite 
Unholy  of  werkes, 
Wente  wide  in  this  world 
Wondres  to  here. 

Though  we  must  rejoice  that  Chaucer  prevailed  with  his  French 
forms,  Langland  reminds  us  that  poetry — even  English  poetry — is 
older  than  rhyme,  older  than  the  iambic  measure,  older  than  all  the 
metrical  patterns  which  now  seem  so  much  a  part  of  it.  If  our 
criticism  is  to  have  any  value,  it  must  insist  upon  the  obvious  truth 


INTRODUCTION  IX 

that  poetry  existed  before  the  English  language  began  to  form  itself 
out  of  the  debris  of  other  tongues,  and  that  it  now  exists  in  forms  of 
great  beauty  among  many  far-away  peoples  who  never  heard  of 
our  special  rules. 

Perhaps  the  first  of  these  disturbing  influences  from  afar  to  be 
felt  in  modern  English  poetry  was  the  Celtic  renascence,  the  wonder- 
ful revival  of  interest  in  old  Irish  song,  which  became  manifest  in 
translations  and  adaptations  of  the  ancient  Gaelic  lyrics  and  epics, 
made  by  W.  B.  Yeats,  Lady  Gregory,  Douglas  Hyde  and  others. 

This  influence  was  most  powerful  because  it  came  to  us  directly, 
not  at  second-hand,  through  the  English  work  of  two  poets  of 
genius,  Synge  and  Yeats.  These  great  men,  fortified  and  inspired 
by  the  simplicity  and  clarity  of  primitive  Celtic  song,  had  little  f 
patience  with  the  "over-appareled"  art  of  Tennyson  and  his 
imitators.  They  found  it  stiffened  by  rhetoric,  by  a  too  conscious 
morality  leading  to  pulpit  eloquence,  and  by  second-hand  bookish 
inspirations;  and  its  movement  they  found  hampered,  thwarted  of 
freedom,  by  a  too  slavish  acceptance  of  ready-made  schemes  of 
metre  and  rhyme.  The  surprises  and  irregularities,  found  in  all  , 
great  art  because  they  are  inherent  in  human  feeling,  were  being 
ruled  out  of  English  poetry,  which  consequently  was  stiffening 
into  forms  too  fixed  and  becoming  more  and  more  remote  from 
life.  As  Mr.  Yeats  said  in  Chicago: 

"We  were  weary  of  all  this.  We  wanted  to  get  rid  not  only  of 
rhetoric  but  of  poetic  diction.  We  tried  to  strip  away  everything 
that  was  artificial,  to  get  a  style  like  speech,  as  simple  as  the  sim- 
plest prose,  like_a  cEy-o£  the  heart." 

It  is  scarcely  too  much  to  say  that  "the  new  poetry" — if  we/ 
may  be  allowed  the  phrase — began  with  these  two  great  Irish  y 
masters.    Think  what  a  contrast  to  even  the  simplest  lyrics  of 
Tennyson  the  pattern  of  their  songs  presents,  and  what  a  contrast 
their  direct  outright  human  feeling  presents  to  the  somewhat 
culture-developed  optimism  of  Browning,  and  the  science-inspired 
pessimism  of  Arnold.     Compared  with  these  Irishmen  the  best 
of  their  predecessors  seem  literary.    This  statement  does  not  imply 
any  measure  of  ultimate  values,  for  it  is  still  too  early  to  estimate 


x  INTRODUCTION 

them.  One  may,  for  example,  believe  Synge  to  be  the  greatest 
poet-playwright  in  English  since  Shakespeare,  and  one  of  the 
great  poets  of  the  world ;  but  a  few  more  decades  must  pass  before 
such  ranking  can  have  authority. 

At  the  same  time  other  currents  were  influencing  progressive 
minds  toward  even  greater  freedom  of  form.  Strangely  enough, 
Whitman's  influence  was  felt  first  in  France.  It  reached  England, 
and  finally  America,  indirectly  from  Paris,  where  the  poets,  stim- 
ulated by  translations  of  the  great  American,  especially  Bajazette's, 
and  by  the  ever-adventurous  quality  of  French  scholarship,  have 
been  experimenting  with  free  verse  ever  since  Mallarme.  The 
great  Irish  poets  felt  the  French  influence — it  was  part  of  the 
education  which  made  them  realize  that  English  poetry  had  be- 
come narrow,  rigid,  and  insular.  Yeats  has  held  usually,  though 
never  slavishly,  to  rhyme  and  a  certain  regularity  of  metrical 
form — in  which,  however,  he  makes  his  own  tunes;  but  Synge 
wrote  his  plays  in  that  wide  borderland  between  prose  and  verse, 
hi  a  form  which,  whatever  one  calls  it,  is  essentially  poetry,  for  it 
has  passion,  glamour,  magic,  rhythm,  and  glorious  imaginative  life. 

This  borderland  between  prose  and  verse  is  being  explored  now 
as  never  before  in  English;  except,  perhaps  in  the  King  James 
translation  of  the  Bible.  The  modern  "vers-libertines,"  as  they 
have  been  wittily  called,  are  doing  pioneer  work  in  an  heroic  effort 
to  get  rid  of  obstacles  that  have  hampered  the  poet  and  separated 
him  from  his  audience.  They  are  trying  to  make  the  modern 
manifestations  of  poetry  less  a  matter  of  rules  and  formulae,  and 
more  a  thing  of  the  spirit,  and  of  organic  as  against  imposed, 
rhythm.  In  this  enthusiastic  labor  they  are  following  not  only  a 
strong  inward  impulse,  not  only  the  love  of  freedom  which  Chaucer 
followed — and  Spenser  and  Shakespeare,  Shelley  and  Coleridge 
and  all  the  masters — but  they  are  moved  also  by  influences  from 
afar.  They  have  studied  the  French  symbolistes  of  the  'nineties, 
and  the  more  recent  Parisian  vers-libristes.  Moreover,  some  of 
them  have  listened  to  the  pure  lyricism  of  the  Provencal  trou- 
badours, have  studied  the  more  elaborate  mechanism  of  early 
Italian  sonneteers  and  canzonists,  have  read  Greek  poetry  from  a 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

new  angle  of  vision;  and  last,  but  perhaps  most  important  of  all, 
have  bowed  to  winds  from  the  East. 

In  the  nineteenth   century  the  western  world — the  western 
aesthetic  world — discovered  the  orient.     Someone  has  said  that 
when  Perry  knocked  at  the  gates  of  Japan,  these  opened,  not  to 
let  us  in,  but  to  let  the  Japanese  out.    Japanese  graphic  art,  espe- 
cially, began  almost  at  once  to  kindle  progressive  minds.    Whistler, 
of  course,  was  the  first  great  creative  artist  to  feel  the  influence  of 
their  instinct  for  balance  and  proportion,  for  subtle  harmonies  of 
color  and  line,  for  the  integrity  of  beauty  in  art  as  opposed  to  the') 
moralizing  and  sentimental  tendencies  which  had  been  intruding  j 
more  and  more. 

Poetry  was  slower  than  the  graphic  arts  to  feel  the  oriental  in- 
fluence, because  of  the  barrier  of  language.  But  European  scholar- 
ship had  long  dabbled  with  Indian,  Persian  and  Sanskrit  literatures, 
and  Fitzgerald  even  won  over  the  crowd  to  some  remotersuspicion 
of  their  beauty  by  meeting  Omar  half-way,  and  making  a  great 
poem  out  of  the  marriage,  not  only  of  two  minds,  but  of  two 
literary  traditions.  Then  a  few  airs  from  Japan  blew  in — a  few 
translations  of  hokku  and  other  forms — which  showed  the  stark  \ 
simplicity  and  crystal  clarity  of  the  art  among  Japanese  poets. 
And  of  late  the  search  has  gone  further:  we  begin  to  discover  a 
whole  royal  line  of  Chinese  poets  of  a  thousand  or  more  years  ago; 
and  we  are  trying  to  search  out  the  secrets  of  their  delicate  and  - 
beautiful  art.  The  task  is  difficult,  because  our  poets,  ignorant  of 
Chinese,  have  to  get  at  these  masters  through  the  literal  transla- 
tions of  scholars.  But  even  by  this  round-about  way,  poets  like 
Allen  Upward,  Ezra  Pound,  Helen  Waddell  and  a  few  others,  give 
us  something  of  the  rare  flavor,  the  special  exquisite  perfume,  of  the 
original.  And  of  late  the  Indian  influence  has  been  emphasized  by 
the  great  Bengali  poet  and  sage,  Rabindranath  Tagore,  whose 
mastery  of  English  makes  him  a  poet  in  two  languages. 

This  oriental  influence  is  to  be  welcomed  because  it  flows  from 
deep  original  streams  of  poetic  art.  We  should  not  be  afraid  to 
learn  from  it;  and  in  much  of  the  work  of  the  imagists,  and  other 
radical  groups,  we  find  a  more  or  less  conscious,  and  more  or  less 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

>  effective,  yielding  to  that  influence.  We  find  something  of  the 
1  oriental  directness  of  vision  and  simplicity  of  diction,  also  now  and 
1  then  a  hint  of  the  unobtrusive  oriental  perfection  of  form  and 
'.  delicacy  of  feeling. 

All  these  influences,  which  tend  to  make  the  art  of  poetry,  espe- 
cially poetry  in  English,  less  provincial,  more  cosmopolitan,  are 
by  no  means  a  defiance  of  the  classic  tradition.  On  the  contrary, 
they  are  an  endeavor  to  return  to  it  at  its  great  original  sources,  and 
to  sweep  away  artificial  laws — the  obiter  dicta  of  secondary  minds — 
which  have  encumbered  it.  There  is  more  of  the  great  authentic 
classic  tradition,  for  example,  in  the  Spoon  River  Anthology  than  in 
the  Idylls  of  the  King,  Bdaustian's  Adventure,  and  Sohrab  and 
Rustum  combined.  And  the  free  rhythms  of  Whitman,  Mallarme, 
Pound,  Sandburg  and  others,  in  their  inspired  passages,  are  more 
truly  in  line  with  the  biblical,  the  Greek,  the  Anglo-Saxon,  and 
even  the  Shakespearean  tradition,  than  all  the  exact  iambics  of 
Dryden  and  Pope,  the  patterned  alexandrines  of  Racine,  or  the 
closely  woven  metrics  of  Tennyson  and  Swinburne. 

Whither  the  new  movement  is  leading  no  one  can  tell  with 
exactness,  nor  which  of  its  present  manifestations  in  England  and 
America  will  prove  permanently  valuable.  But  we  may  be  sure 
that  the  movement  is  toward  greater  freedom  of  spirit  and  form, 
and  a  more  enlightened  recognition  of  the  international  scope,  the 
cosmopolitanism,  of  the  great  art  of  poetry,  of  which  the  English 
language,  proud  as  its  record  is,  offers  but  a  single  phase.  As  part 
of  such  a  movement,  even  the  most  extravagant  experiments,  the 
most  radical  innovations,  are  valuable,  for  the  moment  at  least,  as 
an  assault  against  prejudice.  And  some  of  the  radicals  of  to-day 
will  be,  no  doubt,  the  masters  of  to-morrow — a  phenomenon  com- 
mon in  the  history  of  the  arts. 


It  remains  only  to  explain  the  plan  of  this  anthology,  its  inclu- 
sions and  omissions. 

It  has  seemed  best  to  include  no  poems  published  before  1900, 
even  though,  as  in  a  few  cases,  the  poets  were  moved  by  the  new 
impulses.  For  example,  those  two  intensely  modern,  nobly  im- 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

passioned,  lyric  poets,  Emily  Dickinson  and  the  Shropshire  Lad 
(Alfred  Edward  Housman) — the  one  dead,  the  other  fortunately 
still  living — both  belong,  by  date  of  publication,  to  the  'nineties. 
The  work  of  poets  already,  as  it  were,  enshrined — whether  by 
fame,  or  death,  or  both — has  also  not  been  quoted:  poets  whose 
works  are  already,  in  a  certain  sense,  classics,  and  whose  books  are 
treasured  by  all  lovers  of  the  art — like  Synge  and  Moody  and  Riley, 
too  early  gone  from  us,  and  William  Butler  Yeats,  whose  later  verse 
is  governed,  even  more  than  his  earlier,  by  the  new  austerities. 

Certain  other  omissions  are  more  difficult  to  explain,  because 
they  may  be  thought  to  imply  a  lack  of  consideration  which  we  do 
not  feel.  The  present  Laureate,  Robert  Bridges,  even  in  the  late 
'eighties  and  early  'nineties,  was  led  by  his  own  personal  taste, 
especially  in  his  Shorter  Poems,  toward  austere  simplicity  of  sub- 
ject, diction  and  style.  But  his  most  representative  poems  were 
written  before  1900.  Rudyard  Kipling  has  been  inspired  at  times 
by  the  modern  muse,  but  his  best  poems  also  antedate  1900. 
This  is  true  also  of  Louise  Imogen  Guiney  and  Bliss  Carman, 
though  most  of  their  work,  like  that  of  Arthur  Symons  and  the 
late  Stephen  Phillips  and  Anna  Hempstead  Branch,  belongs,  by 
its  affinities,  to  the  earlier  period.  And  Alfred  Noyes,  whatever 
the  date  of  his  poems,  bears  no  immediate  relation  to  the  more 
progressive  modern  movement  in  the  art. 

On  the  other  hand,  we  have  tried  to  be  hospitable  to  the  ad- 
venturous, the  experimental,  because  these  are  the  qualities  of 
pioneers,  who  look  forward,  not  backward,  and  who  may  lead  on, 
further  than  we  can  see  as  yet,  to  new  domains  of  the  ever-conquer- 
ing spirit  of  beauty.  H.  M. 

NOTE.  A  word  about  the  typography  of  this  volume.  No  rigid  system  of 
lineation,  indention,  etc.,  has  been  imposed  upon  the  poets  who  very  kindly 
lend  us  their  work.  For  example,  sonnets  are  printed  with  or  without  in- 
dention according  to  the  individual  preference  of  the  poet;  also  other  rhymed 
forms,  such  as  quatrains  rhyming  alternately;  as  well  as  various  forms  of 
free  verse.  Punctuation  and  spelling  are  more  uniform,  although  a  certain 
liberty  has  been  conceded  in  words  like  gray  or  grey,  the  color  of  which  seems 
to  vary  with  the  spelling,  and  in  the  use  of  dots,  dashes,  commas,  colons,  etc. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

CONRAD  AIKEN:  PAGE 

%/     Music  1  Heard N  . . .  i 

>/    Dead  Cleopatra i 

•  Dancing  Adairs 2 

ZOE  AKINS: 

The  Tragedienne 3 

I  Am  the  Wind 3 

Conquered 4 

The  Wanderer 4 

RICHARD  ALDINGTON: 

The  Poplar 5 

Lesbia 6 

Images,  I- VI 6 

Choricos 7 

•4MARY  ALOIS: 

Barberries 10 

When  You  Come n 

Flash-lights,  I-III 12 

WALTER  CONRAD  ARENSBERG: 

Voyage  a  Plnfini 13 

At  Daybreak 14 

To  Hasekawa 14 

Dialogue 14 

Song  of  the  Souls  Set  Free 15 

WILTON  AGNEW  BARRETT: 

A  New  England  Church 15 

JOSEPH  WARREN  BEACH: 

Rue  Bonaparte 16 

The  View  at  Gunderson's 17 

xv 


J 


xvi  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

WILLIAM  ROSE  BENET:  PAGE 

v  The  Falconer  of  God - 18 

The  Horse  Thief 20 

MAXWELL  BODENHEIM: 

The  Rear  Porches  of  an  Apartment-Building 24 

The  Interne 24 

The  Old  Jew 25 

The  Miner : 25 

To  an  Enemy 25 

To  a  Discarded  Steel  Rail 26 

GORDON  BOTTOMLEY: 

Night  and  Morning  Songs: 

My  Moon 26 

Elegiac  Mood 27 

Dawn 27 

ROLLOjBRnTEN : 

Bird  of  passion 28 

RUPERT  BROOKE: 

Retrospect 29 

Nineteen-Fourteen : 

I.  Peace 29 

II.  Safety 30 

III.  The  Dead : 30 

IV.  The  Dead 31 

V.  The  Soldier 31 

WITTER  BYNNER: 
To  Celia: 

I.  Consummation 32 

II.  During  a  Chorale  by  Cesar  Franck 33 

III.  Songs  Ascending 34 

Grieve  not  for  Beauty 34 

JOSEPH  CAMPBELL: 

At  Harvest 35 

On  Waking. . .' 36 

The  Old  Woman 38 


J 


\ 


H 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  xvii 

NANCY  CAMPBELL:  PAGE 

The  Apple-Tree 38 

The  Monkey 39 

SKIPWTTH  CANNELL. 

The  Red  Bridge 40 

The  King 41 

WlLLA  SlBERT  GATHER: 

The  Palatine  (In  the  "Dark  Ages.") 43 

Spanish  Johnny 44 

PADRAIC  COLUM: 

Polonius  and  the  Ballad  Singers 45 

The  Sea  Bird  to  the  Wave 49 

Old  Men  Complaining 49 

GRACE  HAZARD  CONKLING: 

Refugees  (Belgium — 1914) 52 

"The  Little  Rose  is  Dust,  My  Dear" 53 

ALICE  CORBIN: 

O  World 53 

Two  Voices 54 

Love  Me  at  Last 55 

Humoresque 55 

One  City  Only 55 

Apparitions,  I-II 57 

The  Pool 57 

Music 58 

What  Dim  Arcadian  Pastures 59 

Nodes 59 

ADELAIDE  CRAPSEY: 
Cinquains: 

November  Night 60 

Triad 60 

Susanna  and  the  Elders 61 

The  Guarded  Wound 61 

The  Warning 61 

Fate  Defied..  61 


xviii  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

ADELAIDE  CRAPSEY — Continued  PAGE 

The  Pledge 61 

Expenses 62 

Adventure 62 

Dirge 62 

Song 62 

The  Lonely  Death 63 

H.D.: 

Hermes  of  the  Ways,  I-II 63 

Priapus  (Keeper  of  Orchards) 65 

The  PooJ .-r.  .<-. 66 

Oread 66 

The  Garden,  I-II 66 

Moonrise 67 

The  Shrine,  I-IV 68 

MARY  CAROLYN  DAVIES: 

Cloistered 71 

Songs  of  a  Girl,  I-V 72 

FANNIE  STEARNS  DAVIS: 

Profits 73 

Souls 74 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE: 

The  Listeners 74 

An  Epitaph 75 

LEE  WILSON  DODD: 

The  Temple 76 

The  CQmrade 77 

JOHN  DRINKWATER: 

Sunrise  on  Rydal  Water 78 

LOUISE  DRISCOLL: 

The.Metal  Checks 80 


\ 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  xix 

DOROTHY  DUDLEY:  PAGE 

La  Rue  de  la  Montagne  Sainte-GfcneviSve 84 

HELEN  DUDLEY: 

To  One  Unknown 86 

Song 86 

MAX  EASTMAN: 

Diogenes 87 

In  March 87 

At  the  Aquarium 87 

T.  S.  ELIOT: 

Portrait  of  a  Lady,  I-III 88 

ARTHUR  DAVISON  FICKE: 

Meeting 92 

Among  Shadows 93 

The  Three  Sisters .- 93 

Portrait  of  an  Old  Woman 93 

I  am  Weary  of  Being  Bitter 94 

From  "Sonnets  of  a  Portrait  Painter" 95 

Like  Him  Whose  Spirit 95 

JOHN  GOULD  FLETCHER: 

Irradiations,  I-IV 96 

Arizona  Poems: 

Mexican  Quarter 98 

Rain  in  the  Desert 99. 

The  Blue  Symphony,  I-V 100 

F.  S.  FLINT: 

Poems  hi  Unrhymed  Cadence,  I-III 104 

MOEREEN  Fox: 

Liadain  to  Curithir,  I-V 106 

FLORENCE  KLPER  FRANK: 

The  Jewish  Conscript 108 

The  Movies 109 

You 109 


XX  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

ROBERT  FROST:  PAGE 

Mending  Wall no 

After  Apple-Picking in 

My  November  Guest 112 

Mowing 113 

Storm  Fear 113 

Going  for  Water 114 

The  Code— Heroics 115 

HAMLIN  GARLAND: 

To  a  Captive  Crane 119 

The  Mountains  are  a  Lonely  Folk 119 

Magic 119 

WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON: 

Color 120 

Oblivion 121 

Tenants 121 

Gold 122 

On  Hampstead  Heath 122 

Battle: 

The  Going 123 

The  Joke 123 

In  the  Ambulance 123 

Hit 124 

The  Housewife 124 

Hill-born 125 

The  Fear 125 

Back 125 

RICHARD  BUTLER  GLAENZER: 

Star-Magic 126 

*. 

DOUGLAS  COLORING: 

Voyages,  I-IV 127 

HERMANN  HAGEDORN: 

Early  Morning  at  Bargis 1 28 

Doors 129 

Departure 129 

Broadway 130 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  xxi 

THOMAS  HARDY:  PAGE 

She  Hears  the  Storm 130 

The  Voice 131 

In  the  Moonlight 132 

The  Man  He  Killed 132 

RALPH  HODGSON: 

The  Mystery 133 

Three  Poems,  I-I11 133 

Stupidity  Street 134 

HORACE  HOLLEY: 
Three  Poems: 

Creative 134 

Twilight  at  Versailles 135 

Lovers 135 

HELEN  HOYT: 

Ellis  Park 135 

The  New-Born 136 

Rain  at  Night 137 

The  Lover  Sings  of  a  Garden 137 

Since  I  Have  Felt  the  Sense  of  Death 138 

FORD  MADOX  HUEFFER: 

,        Antwerp,  I-VI 138 

SCHARMEL  IRIS: 

I/"  After  the  Martyrdom 143 

f  JLajnent 143 

•"  Iteration 144 

i^Early  Nightfall 144 

ORRICK  JOHNS: 

Songs  of  Deliverance: 

I.  The  Song  of  Youth '. . .  144 

II.  Virgins 146 

HI.  No  Prey  Am  1 146 


xxii  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

JOYCE  KILMER:  PAGE 

Trees 150 

Easter 150 

ALFRED  KREYMBORG: 

America 151 

Old  Manuscript 151 

C6zanne 152 

Parasite 152 

WILLIAM  LAIRD: 

Traiimerei  at  Ostendorff  s 153 

A  Very  Old  Song 154 

D.H.LAWRENCE: 

A  Woman  and  Her  Dead  Husband 155 

Fireflies  in  tjie  Cora 157 

Green 158 

Grief 158 

Service  of  All  the  Dead 159 

AGNES  LEE: 

Motherhood 159 

A  Statue  in  a  Garden 161 

On  the  Jail  Steps 161 

Her  Going 162 

WILLIAM  ELLERY  LEONARD: 

Indian  Summer 165 

VACHEL  LINDSAY: 

General  William  Booth  Enters  into  Heaven 166 

The  Eagle  that  is  Forgotten 168 

The  Congo  (A  Study  of  the  Negro  Race) : 

I.  Their  Basic  Savagery 169 

II.  Their  Irrepressible  High  Spirits 171 

HE.  The  Hope  of  Their  Religion 172 

Aladdin  and  the  Jinn 174 

The  Chinese  Nightingale 175 


. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  xxiii 

AMY  LOWELL:  PAGE 

Patterns 182 

1777: 

I.  The  Trumpet- Vine  Arbor 186 

II.  The  City  of  Falling  Leaves 187 

Venus  Transiens 191 

A  Lady 192 

Chinoiseries: 

Reflections 192 

Falling  Snow 193 

Hoar-frost 193 

Solitaire 193 

A  Gift 194 

Red  Slippers 194 

Apology 195 

PERCY  MACKAYE: 

Old  Age 196 

Song  from  "Mater" 197 

FREDERIC  MANNING: 

Sacrifice 198 

At  Even 199 

JOHN  MASEFIELD: 

Ships 200 

Cargoes 203 

Watching  by  a  Sick-Bed 203 

What  am  I,  Life? 204 


*   EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS: 

Spoon  River  Anthology: 

The  Hill 205 

Ollie  McGee 206 

Daisy  Fraser 207 

Hare  Drummer 207 

Doc  Hill 208 

Fiddler  Jones 208 


, 


\ 


xxiv  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS — Continued  PAGE 

Thomas  Rhodes 209 

Editor  Whedon 210 

Seth  Compton 210 

Henry  C.  (£alhoun 211 

Perry  ZolL 212 

Archibald  Higbie 212 

Father  Malloy 213 

Lucinda  Matlock 213 

Anne  Rutledge 214 

William  H.  Herndon 215 

Rutherford  McDowell 215 

Arlo  Will. .'. 216 

Aaron  Hatfield 217 

Webster  Ford 218 

Silence 219 

ALICE  MEYNELL: 

Maternity 221 

Chimes. .                                                                                 ...  221 


MAX  MICHELSON: 

O  Brother  Tree 222 

The  Bird 223 

Storm 223 

A  Hymn  to  Night 224 

Love  Lyric 224 

EDNA  ST.  VINCENT  MILLAY: 

God's  World 225 

Ashes  of  Life 226 

The  Shroud. .  .226 


HAROLD  MONRO: 

Great  City 227 

Youth  in  Arms 228 

The  Strange  Companion 229 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  xxv 

HARRIET  MONROE:  PAGE 

The  Hotel 231 

The  Turbine 233 

On  the  Porch 236 

The  Wonder  of  It 237 

The  Inner  Silence 238 

Love  Song 238 

A  Farewell 239 

Lullaby 239 

Pain 240 

The  Water  Ouzel 241 

The  Pine  at  Timber-Line 242 

Mountain  Song 242 


JOHN  G.  NEIHARDT: 

Prayer  for  Pain 243 

Envoi 244 


YONE  NOGUCHI: 

The  Poet 245 

I  Have  Cast  the  World 246 


GRACE  FALLOW  NORTON: 

Allegra  Agonistes 246 

Make  No  Vows 247 

I  Give  Thanks 247 

JAMES  OPPENHEIM: 

The  Slave 248 

The  Lonely  Child 249 

Not  Overlooked 249 

The  Runner  hi  the  Skies 250 


PATRICK  ORR: 

Annie  Shore  and  Johnnie  Doon 250 

In  the  Mohave 251 


, 


xxvi  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

SEUMAS  O'SULLIVAN:  PAGE 

My  Sorrow 252 

Splendid  and  Terrible 252 

The  Others 253 

JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODY: 

Cradle  Song,  I-III 254 

The  Cedars 256 

A  Song  of  Solomon 257 

EZRA  POUND: 

Awpta 257 

The  Return 258 

Piccadilly 259 

N.Y....; 259 

The  Coming  of  War:  Actaeon 260 

The  Garden 260 

Ortus 261 

The  Choice 261 

The  Garret 262 

Dance  Figure 262 

From  "Near  Perigord" 263 

An  Immorality 264 

The  Study  in  Aesthetics 265 

Further  Instructions 265 

Villanelle:  The  Psychological  Hour,  I-III 266 

Ballad  of  the  Goodly  Fere 268 

Ballad  for  Gloom 270 

La  Fraisne 271 

The  River-Merchant's  Wife:  A  Letter  (from  the  Chinese  of  Li 

Po.) 273 

Exile's  Letter  (From  the  Chinese  of  Li  Po.) 274 

JOHN  REED: 

Sangar 277 

ERNEST  RHYS: 

Dagonet's  Canzonet 280 

A  Song  of  Happiness 281 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  xxvii 

EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON:  PAGE 

The  Master 283 

John  Gorham 285 

Richard  Cory 287 

The  Growth  of  Lorraine,  I-II 287 

Cassandra 288 

CARL  SANDBURG: 

Chicago 290 

The  Harbor 291 

Sketch 292 

Lost 292 

Jan  Kubelik 293 

At  a  Window 293 

The  Poor 294 

The  Road  and  the  End . 294 

Killers.  .  < 295 

Nocturne  in  a  Deserted  Brickyard 296 

Handfuls 296 

Under  the  Harvest  Moon 297 

Choose 297 

Kin 298 

Places 298 

Joy 299 

The  Great  Hunt 299 

Our  Prayer  of  Thanks 300 

CLARA  SHANAFELT: 

To  Thee 301 

Caprice 301 

A  Vivid  Girl 301 

Invocation 302 

Pastel 302 

A  Gallant  Woman 302 

Scherzo 303 

FRANCES  SHAW: 

Who  Loves  the  Rain < 304 

The  Harp  of  the  Wind 304 


xxviii  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

FRANCES  SHAW — Continued  PAGE 

The  Ragpicker 305 

Cologne  Cathedral 305 

Star  Thought 305 

The  Child's  Quest 306 

Little  Pagan  Rain  Song 306 

CONSTANCE  LINDSAY  SKINNER: 
Songs  of  the  Coast-Dwellers: 

The  Chief's  Prayer  after  the  Salmon  Catch 307 

Song  of  Whip-Plaiting 308 

No  Answer  is  Given 309 

JAMES  STEPHENS: 

**        What  Tomas  An  Buile  said  in  a  Pub 312 

Bessie  Bobtail 313 

Hate 313 

The  Waste  Places,  I-II 314 

Hawks 316 

Dark  Wings 317 

GEORGE  STERLING: 

A  Legend  of  the  Dove 317 

Kindred 318 

Omnia  Exeunt  in  Mysterium 318 

The  Last  Days 319 

WALLACE  STEVENS: 

„      Peter  Quince  at  the  Clavier,  T-IV 320 

In  Battle 322 

Sunday  Morning,  I-V 323 

A  JAN  SYRIAN: 

The  Syrian  Lover  hi  Exile  Remembers  Thee,  Light  of  my  Land .  325 

RABINDRANATH  TAGORE: 

From  "  Gitanjali,"  I-VI 327 

From  "The  Gardener,"  I-IX 329 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  xxix 

SARA  TEASDALE:  PAGE 

Leaves •  •  334 

Morning .334 

The  Flight 335 

Over  the  Roofs , 335 

Debt 336 

Songs  in  a  Hospital : 

The  Broken  Field 336 

Open  Windows 336 

After  Death 337 

In  Memoriam  F.  O.  S 337 

Swallow  Flight 338 

The  Answer*. 338 

EUNICE  TEST  JENS: 

The  Bacchante  to  Her  Babe 339 

The  Steam  Shovel 341 

The  Great  Man 343 

RIDGELY  TORRENCE: 

The  Bird  and  the  Tree 344 

The  Son 345 

CHARLES  HANSON  TOWNE: 

Beyond  the  Stars 346 

Louis  UNTERMEYER: 

Landscapes 348 

Feuerzauber 350 

On  the  Birth  of  a  Child 351 

Irony 352 

ALLEN  UPWARD: 

Scented  Leaves  from  a  Chinese  Jar: 

The  Acacia  Leaves 352 

The  Bitter  Purple  Willows 352 

The  Coral  Fisher 353 

The  Diamond 353 

The  Estuary 353 

The  Intoxicated  Poet 353 


xxx  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

ALLEN  UPWARD — Continued  PAGE 

The  Jonquils 353 

The  Marigold 353 

The  Mermaid 354 

The  Middle  Kingdom 354 

The  Milky  Way 354 

The  Onion 354 

The  Sea-Shell 354 

The  Stupid  Kite 354 

The  Windmill 355 

The  Word 355 

JOHN  HALL  WHEELOCK: 

Sunday  Evening  in  the  Common * 355 

Spring ^ 356 

Like  Music * 356 

The  Thunder-Shower 357 

Song 357 

Alone 358 

Nirvana 358 

Triumph  of  the  Singer 358 

/      HERVEY  WHITE: 

V               Last  Night 359 

I  Saw  the  Clouds 360 

MARGARET  WEDDEMER: 

The  Beggars 361 

Teresina's  Face ". . ' 362 

Greek  Folk  Song 362 

FLORENCE  WILKINSON: 

Our  Lady  of  Idleness 363 

Students 365 


MARGUERITE  WILKINSON: 

A  Woman's  Beloved — A  Psalm 367 

An  Incantation 368 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  xxxi 

WILLIAM  CARLOS  WILLIAMS:  PAGE 

Sicilian  Emigrant's  Song 369 

Peace  on  Earth 370 

The  Shadow 371 

Metric  Figure 371 

Sub  Terra 372 

Slow  Movement 373 

Postlude 374 

CHARLES  ERSKINE  SCOTT  WOOD: 

"The  Poet  in  the  Desert"— Extracts  from  the  Prologue 375 

EDITH  WYATT: 

On  th«  Great  Plateau 377 

Summer  Hail 379 

To  F.  W 380 

A  City  Afternoon 382 


THE  NEW  POETRY 


THE   NEW  POETRY 


Conrad  Aiken 

MUSIC  I  HEARD 

Music  I  heard  with  you  was  more  than  music, 
And  bread  I  broke  with  you  was  more  than  bread. 
Now  that  I  am  without  you,  all  is  desolate, 
All  that  was  once  so  beautiful  is  dead. 

Your  hands  once  touched  this  table  and  this  silver, 
And  I  have  seen  your  fingers  hold  this  glass. 
These  things  do  not  remember  you,  beloved: 
And  yet  your  touch  upon  them  will  not  pass. 

For  it  was  in  my  heart  you  moved  among  them,  --» 
And  blessed  them  with  your  hands  and  with  your  eyes. 
And  in  my  heart  they  will  remember  always: 
They  knew  you  once,  O  beautiful  and  wise! 


DEAD  CLEOPATRA 

Dead  Cleopatra  lies  in  a  crystal  casket, 
Wrapped  and  spiced  by  the  cunningest  of  hands. 
Around  her  neck  they  have  put  a  golden  necklace 
Her  tatbebs,  it  is  said,  are  worn  with  sands. 

Dead  Cleopatra  was  once  revered  in  Egypt — 
Warm-eyed  she  was,  this  princess  of  the  south. 
Now  she  is  very  old  and  dry  and  faded, 
With  black  bitumen  they  have  sealed  up  her  mouth. 


THE  NEW  POETRY 

Grave-robbers  pulled  the  gold  rings  from  her  fingers, 
Despite  the  holy  symbols  across  her  breast; 
They  scared  the  bats  that  quietly  whirled  above  her. 
Poor  lady!  she  would  have  been  long  since  at  rest 

If  she  had  not  been  wrapped  and  spiced  so  shrewdly, 
Preserved,  obscene,  to  mock  black  flights  of  years. 
What  would  her  lover  have  said,  had  he  foreseen  it? 
Had  he  been  moved  to  ecstasy,  or  tears? 

O  sweet  clean  earth  from  whom  the  green  blade  cometh!- 
When  we  are  dead,  my  best-beloved  and  I, 
Close  well  above  us  that  we  may  rest  forever, 
Sending  up  grass  and  blossoms  to  the  sky. 


DANCING  ADAIRS 

Behold  me,  in  my  chiffon,  gauze  and  tinsel, 
Flitting  out  of  the  shadow  into  the  spotlight, 
And  into  the  shadow  again,  without  a  whisper! — 
Firefly's  my  name,  I  am  evanescent. 

Firefly's  your  name.    You  are  evanescent. 
But  I  follow  you  as  remorselessly  as  darkness, 
And  shut  you  in  and  enclose  you,  at  last,  and  always, 
Till  you  are  lost,  as  a  voice  is  lost  in  silence. 

Till  I  am  lost,  as  a  voice  is  lost  in  silence.  .  .  . 
Are  you  the  one  who  would  close  so  cool  about  me? 
My  fire  sheds  into  and  through  you  and  beyond  you: 
How  can  your  fingers  hold  me?    I  am  elusive. 

How  can  my  fingers  hold  you?    You  are  elusive? 
Yes,  you  are  flame;  but  I  surround  and  love  you, 
Always  extend  beyond  you,  cool,  eternal, 
To  take  you  into  my  heart's  great  void  of  silence. 


ZOE  AKINS 

You  shut  me  into  your  heart's  great  void  of  silence. 
O  sweet  and  soothing  end  for  a  life  of  whirling! 
Now  I  am  still,  whose  life  was  mazed  with  motion. 
Now  I  sink  into  you,  for  love  of  sleep. 


Zoe  Akins 

THE  TRAGEDIENNE 

A  storm  is  riding  on  the  tide; 
Grey  is  the  day  and  grey  the  tide, 
Far-off  the  sea-gulls  wheel  and  cry — 
A  storm  draws  near  upon  the  tide; 

A  city  lifts  its  minarets 
To  winds  that  from  the  desert  sweep, 
And  prisoned  Arab  women  weep 
Below  the  domes  and  minarets; 

Upon  a  hill  in  Thessaly 
Stand  broken  columns  in  a  line 
About  a  cold  forgotten  shrine, 
Beneath  a  moon  in  Thessaly: 

But  in  the  world  there  is  no  place 
So  desolate  as  your  tragic  face. 


^  I  AM  THE  WIND 

I  am  the  wind  that  wavers, 
You  are  the  certain  land; 

I  am  the  shadow  that  passes 
Over  the  sand. 


THE  NEW  POETRY 

I  am  the  leaf  that  quivers, 

You  the  unshaken  tree; 
You  are  the  stars  that  are  steadfast, 

I  am  the  sea. 

You  are  the  light  eternal — 

Like  a  torch  I  shall  die; 
You  are  the  surge  of  deep  music, 

I  but  a  cry! 

CONQUERED 

0  pale!  O  vivid!  dear! 
O  disillusioned  eyes 

Forever  near! 

0  Dream,  arise! 

1  will  not  turn  away 

From  the  face  I  loved  again; 
Your  beauty  may  sway 
My  life  with  pain.  - 

I  will  drink  the  wine  you  pour, 

1  will  seek  to  put  asunder 
Our  ways  no  more — 

O  Love!  O  Wonder! 

THE  WANDERER 

The  ships  are  lying  in  the  bay, 

The  gulls  are  swinging  round  their  spars; 
My  soul  as  eagerly  as  they 

Desires  the  margin  of  the  stars. 

So  much  do  I  love  wandering, 
So  much  I  love  the  sea  and  sky, 

That  it  will  be  a  piteous  thing 
In  one  small  grave  to  lie. 


RICHARD  ALDINGTON 

Richard  Aldington 

THE  POPLAR 

Why  do  you  always  stand  there  shivering 
Between  the  white  stream  and  the  road? 

The  people  pass  through  the  dust 

On  bicycles,  in  carts,  in  motor-cars; 

The  waggoners  go  by  at  dawn; 

The  lovers  walk  on  the  grass  path  at  night. 

Stir  from  your  roots,  walk,  poplar! 
You  are  more  beautiful  than  they  are. 

I  know  that  the  white  wind  loves  you, 

Is  always  kissing  you  and  turning  up 

The  white  lining  of  your  green  petticoat. 

The  sky  darts  through  you  like  blue  rain, 

And  the  grey  rain  drips  on  your  flanks 

And  loves  you. 

And  I  have  seen  the  moon 

Slip  his  silver  penny  into  your  pocket 

As  you  straightened  your  hair; 

And  the  white  mist  curling  and  hesitating 

Like  a  bashful  lover  about  your  knees. 

I  know  you,  poplar; 

I  have  watched  you  since  I  was  ten. 

But  if  you  had  a  little  real  love, 

A  little  strength, 

You  would  leave  your  nonchalant  idle  lovers 

And  go  walking  down  the  white  road 

Behind  the  wagoners. 

There  are  beautiful  beeches 

Down  beyond  the  hill. 

Will  you  always  stand  there  shivering? 


THE  NEW  POETRY 


LESBIA 

Grow  weary  if  you  will,  let  me  be  sad. 

Use  no  more  speech  now; 

Let  the  silence  spread  gold  hair  above  us, 

Fold  on  delicate  fold. 

Use  no  more  speech; 

You  had  the  ivory  of  my  life  to  carve.  .  .  . 

And  Picus  of  Mirandola  is  dead; 
And  all  the  gods  they  dreamed  and  fabled  of, 
Hermes,  and  Thoth  and  Bel  are  rotten  now, 
Rotten  and  dank. 

And  through  it  all  I  see  your  pale  Greek  face; 

Tenderness 

Makes  me  eager  as  a  little  child  to  love  you, 

You  morsel  left  half-cold  on  Caesar's  plate. 


IMAGES 


Like  a  gondola  of  green  scented  fruits 
Drifting  along  the  dank  canals  at  Venice, 
You,  O  exquisite  one, 
Have  entered  my  desolate  city. 


n 

The  blue  smoke  leaps 
Like  swirling  clouds  of  birds  vanishing. 
So  my  love  leaps  forth  towards  you, 
Vanishes  and  is  renewed. 


RICHARD  ALDINGTON 

ra 

A  rose-yellow  moon  in  a  pale  sky 
When  the  sunset  is  faint  vermilion 
In  the  mist  among  the  tree-boughs, 
Art  thou  to  me. 

IV 

As  a  young  beech-tree  on  the  edge  of  a  forest 

Stands  still  in  the  evening, 

Yet  shudders  through  all  its  leaves  in  the  light  air 

And  seems  to  fear  the  stars — 

So  are  you  still  and  so  tremble. 

v 

The  red  deer  are  high  on  the  mountain,^ 
They  are  beyond  the  last  pine  trees. 
And  my  desires  have  run  with  them. 

VI 

The  flower  which  the  wind  has  shaken 
Is  soon  filled  again  with  rain; 
So  does  my  mind  fill  slowly  with  misgiving 
Until  you  return. 

CHORICOS 

The  ancient  songs 

Pass  deathward  mournfully. 

Cold  lips  that  sing  no  more,  and  withered  wreaths, 

Regretful  eyes  and  drooping  breasts  and  wings  — 

Symbols  of  ancient  songs 

Mournfully  passing 

Down  to  the  great  white  surges, 

Watched  of  none 

Save  the  frail  sea-birds 


8  THE  NEW  POETRY 

And  the  lithe  pale  girls, 
Daughters  of  Okeanos. 

And  the  songs  pass 

From  the  green  land 

Which  lies  upon  the  waves  as  a  leaf 

On  the  flowers  of  hyacinth; 

And  they  pass  from  the  waters, 

The  manifold  winds  and  the  dim  moon, 

And  they  come, 

Silently  winging  through  soft  Kimmerian  dusk, 

To  the  quiet  level  lands 

That  she  keeps  for  us  all, 

That  she  wrought  for  us  all  for  sleep 

In  the  silver  days  of  the  earth's  dawning- 

Prosperine,  daughter  of  Zeus. 

And  we  turn  from  the  Kuprian's  breasts, 

And  we  turn  from  thee, 

Phoibos  Apollon, 

And  we  turn  from  the  music  of  old 

And  the  hills  that  we  loved  and  the  meads, 

And  we  turn  from  the  fiery  day, 

And  the  lips  that  were  over-sweet; 

For  silently 

Brushing  the  fields  with  red-shod  feet, 

With  purple  robe 

Searing  the  flowers  as  with  a  sudden  flame, 

Death, 

Thou  hast  come  upon  us. 

And  of  all  the  ancient  songs 
Passing  to  the  swallow-blue  halls 
By  the  dark  streams  of  Persephone, 
This  only  remains: 
That  in  the  end  we  turn  to  thee, 


RICHARD  ALDINGTON 

Death, 

That  we  turn  to  thee,  singing 

One  last  song. 

O  Death, 

Thou  art  an  healing  wind 

That  blowest  over  white  flowers 

A-tremble  with  dew; 

Thou  art  a  wind  flowing 

Over  long  leagues  of  lonely  sea; 

Thou  art  the  dusk  and  the  fragrance; 

Thou  art  the  lips  of  love  mournfully  smiling; 

Thou  art  the  pale  peace  of  one 

Satiate  with  old  desires; 

Thou  art  the  silence  of  beauty, 

And  we  look  no  more  for  the  morning; 

We  yearn  no  more  for  the  sun, 

Since  with  thy  white  hands, 

Death, 

Thou  crownest  us  with  the  pallid  chaplets, 

The  slim  colorless  poppies 

Which  in  thy  garden  alone 

Softly  thou  gatherest. 

And  silently; 

And  with  slow  feet  approaching; 

And  with  bowed  head  and  unlit  eyes, 

We  kneel  before  thee: 

And  thou,  leaning  towards  us, 

Caressingly  layest  upon  us 

Flowers  from  thy  thin  cold  hands, 

And,  smiling  as  a  chaste  woman 

Knowing  love  in  her  heart, 

Thou  sealest  our  eyes 

And  the  illimitable  quietude 

Comes  gently  upon  us. 


io  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Mary  Aldis 

BARBERRIES 

You  say  I  touch  the  barberries 

As  a  lover  his  mistress? 

What  a  curious  fancy! 

One  must  be  delicate,  you  know — 

They  have  bitter  thorns. 

You  say  my  hand  is  hurt? 

Oh  no,  it  was  my  breast, 

It  was  crushed  and  pressed. 

I  mean — why  yes,  of  course,  of  course — 

There  is  a  bright  drop — isn't  there? — 

Right  on  my  finger; 

Just  the  color  of  a  barberry, 

But  it  comes  from  my  heart. 

Do  you  love  barberries? 

In  the  autumn 

When  the  sun's  desire 

Touches  them  to  a  glory  of  crimson  and  gold? 

I  love  them  best  then. 

There  is  something  splendid  about  them : 

They  are  not  afraid 

Of  being  warm  and  glad  and  bold; 

They  flush  joyously, 

Like  a  cheek  under  a  lover's  kiss; 

They  bleed  cruelly 

Like  a  dagger  wound  in  the  breast; 

They  flame  up  madly  for  their  little  hour, 

Knowing  they  must  die. 

Do  you  love  barberries? 


MARY  ALDIS  II 


WHEN  YOU  COME 

"  There  was  a  girl  with  him  for  a  time.  She  took  him  to  her  room 
when  he  was  desolate  and  warmed  him  and  took  care  of  him.  One  day 
he  could  not  find  her.  For  many  weeks  he  walked  constantly  in  that 
locality  in  search  of  her.n — From  Life  of  Francis  Thompson. 

When  you  come  tonight 
To  our  small  room 
You  will  look  and  listen — 
I  shall  not  be  there. 

You  will  cry  out  your  dismay 
To  the  unheeding  gods; 
You  will  wait  and  look  and  listen — 
I  shall  not  be  there. 

There  is  a  part  of  you  I  love 

More  than  your  hands  in  mine  at  rest; 

There  is  a  part  of  you  I  love 

More  than  your  lips  upon  my  breast. 


There  is  a  part  of  you  I  wound 
Even  in  my  caress; 
There  is  a  part  of  you  withheld 
I  may  not  possess. 

There  is  a  part  of  you  I  hate — 
Your  need  of  me 
When  you  would  be  alone, 
Alone  and  free. 


When  you  come  tonight 
To  our  small  room 
You  will  look  and  listen — 
I  shall  not  be  there. 


12  THE  NEW  POETRY 


FLASH-LIGHTS 


Candles  toppling  sideways  in  tomato  cans 

Sputter  and  sizzle  at  head  and  foot. 

The  gaudy  patterns  of  a  patch-work  quilt 

Lie  smooth  and  straight 

Save  where  upswelling  over  a  silent  shape. 

A  man  in  high  boots  stirs  something  on  a  rusty  stove 

Round  and  round  and  round, 

As  a  new  cry  like  a  bleating  lamb's 

Pierces  his  brain. 

After  a  time  the  man  busies  himself  * 

With  hammer  and  nails  and  rough-hewn  lumber, 

But  fears  to  strike  a  blow. 

Outside  the  moonlight  sleeps  white  upon  the  plain 

And  the  bark  of  a  coyote  shrills  across  the  night. 


A  smell  of  musk 

Comes  to  him  pungently  through  the  darkness. 

On  the  screen 

Scenes  from  foreign  lands, 

Released  by  the  censor, 

Shimmer  in  cool  black  and  white 

Historic  information. 

He  shifts  his  seat  sideways,  sideways — 

A  seeking  hand  creeps  to  another  hand, 

And  a  leaping  flame 

Illuminates  the  historic  information. 


m 

Within  the  room,  sounds  of  weeping 
Low  and  hushed: 


WALTER  CONRAD  ARENSBERG  13 

Without,  a  man,  beautiful  with  the  beauty 

Of  young  strength, 

Holds  pitifully  to  the  handle  of  the  door. 

He  hiccoughs  and  turns  away, 

While  a  hand-organ  plays, 

"The  hours  I  spend  with  thee,  dear  heart." 


Walter  Conrad  Arensberg 

VOYAGE  A  L'INFINI 

The  swan  existing 

Is  like  a  song  with  an  accompaniment 

Imaginary. 

Across  the  grassy  lake, 

Across  the  lake  to  the  shadow  of  the  willows, 

It  is  accompanied  by  an  image — 

As  by  Debussy's 

"Reflets  dans  Veau" 

The  swan  that  is 

Reflects 

Upon  the  solitary  water — breast  to  breast 

With  the  duplicity: 

"The  other  one!" 

And  breast  to  breast  it  is  confused. 

O  visionary  wedding!    O  stateliness  of  the  procession! 

It  is  accompanied  by  the  image  of  itself 

Alone. 


At  night 

The  lake  is  a  wide  silence, 

Without  imagination. 


14  THE  NEW  POETRY 


AT  DAYBREAK 

I  had  a  dream  and  I  awoke  with  it — 
Poor  little  thing  that  I  had  not  unclasped 
After  the  kiss  good-by. 

And  at  the  surface  how  it  gasped — 

This  thing  that  I  had  loved  in  the  unlit 

Depth  of  the  drowsy  sea.  .  .  . 

Ah  me! 

This  thing  with  which  I  drifted  toward  the  sky. 

Driftwood  upon  a  wave — 
Senseless  the  motion  that  it  gave. 


TO  HASEKAWA 

Perhaps  it  is  no  matter  that  you  died. 

Life's  an  incognito  which  you  saw  through: 
You  never  told  on  life — you  had  your  pride; 

But  life  has  told  on  you. 


DIALOGUE 

Be  patient,  Life,  when  Love  is  at  the  gate, 
And  when  he  enters  let  him  be  at  home. 
Think  of  the  roads  that  he  has  had  to  roam. 
Think  of  the  years  that  he  has  had  to  wait. 

But  if  I  let  Love  in  I  shall  be  late. 
Another  has  come  first — there  is  no  room. 
And  I  am  thoughtful  of  the  endless  loom — 
Let  Love  be  patient,  the  importunate. 

O  Life,  be  idle  and  let  Love  come  in, 

And  give  thy  dreamy  hair  that  Love  may  spin. 


WILTON  AGNEW  BARRETT  15 

But  Love  himself  is  me  with  his  song. 

Let  Love  com?  last,  and  then  may  Love  last  long. 

Be  patient,  Life,  for  Love  is  not  the  last. 

Be  patient  now  with  Death,  for  Love  has  passed. 

SONG  OF  THE  SOULS  SET  FREE 

Wrap  the  earth  in  cloudy  weather 

For  a  shroud. 

We  have  slipped  the  earthly  tether, 

We're  above  the  cloud. 

Peep  and  draw  the  cloud  together, 

Peep  upon  the  bowed. 

What  can  they  be  bowing  under, 

Wild  and  wan? 

Peep,  and  draw  the  cloud  asunder, 

Peep,  and  wave  a  dawn. 

It  will  make  them  rise  and  wonder 

Whether  we  are  gone. 


Wilton  Agnew  Barrett 

A  NEW  ENGLAND   CHURCH 

The  white  church  on  the  hill 

Looks  over  the  little  bay — 
A  beautiful  thing  on  the  hill 

When  the  mist  is  gray; 
When  the  hill  looks  old,  and  the  air  turns  cold 

With  the  dying  day! 

The  white  church  on  the  hill — 

A  Greek  in  a  Puritan  town — 
Was  built  on  the  brow  of  the  hill 

For  John  Wesley's  God's  renown, 


16  THE  NEW  POETRY 

And  a  conscience  old  set  a  steeple  cold 
On  its  Grecian  crown. 

In  a  storm  of  faith  on  the  hill 

Hands  raised  it  over  the  bay. 
When  the  night  is  clear  on  the  hill, 

It  stands  up  strong  and  gray; 
But  its  door  is  old,  and  the  tower  points  cold 

To  the  Milky  Way. 

The  white  church  on  the  hill 

Looks  lonely  over  the  town. 
Dim  to  them  under  the  hill 

Is  its  God's  renown, 
And  its  Bible  old,  and  its  creed  grown  cold, 

And  the  letters  brown. 


Joseph  Warren  Beach 

RUE  BONAPARTE 

You  that  but  seek  your  modest  rolls  and  coffee, 
When  you  have  passed  the  bar,  and  have  saluted 
Its  watchful  madam,  then  pray  enter  softly  , 
The  inner  chamber,  even  as  one  who  treads 
The  haunts  of  mating  birds,  and  watch  discreetly 
Over  your  paper's  edge.    There  in  the  corner, 
Obscure,  ensconced  behind  the  uncovered  table, 
A  man  and  woman  keep  their  silent  tryst. 
Outside  the  morning  floods  the  pavement  sweetly; 
Yonder  aloft  a  maid  throws  back  the  shutters; 
The  hucksters  utter  modulated  cries 
As  wistful  as  some  old  pathetic  ballad. 
Within  the  brooding  lovers,  unaware, 
Sit  quiet  hand  hi  hand,  or  in  low  whispers 


JOSEPH  WARREN  BEACH  17 

Communicate  a  more  articulate  love. 

Sometimes  she  plays  with  strings  and,  gently  leaning 

Against  his  shoulder,  shows  him  childish  tricks. 

She  has  not  touched  the  glass  of  milk  before  her, 

Her  breakfast  and  the  price  of  their  admittance. 

She  has  a  look  devoted  and  confiding 

And  might  be  pretty  were  not  life  so  hard. 

But  he,  gaunt  as  his  rusty  bicycle 

That  stands  against  the  table,  and  with  features 

So  drawn  and  stark,  has  only  futile  strength. 

The  love  they  cherish  in  this  stolen  meeting 

Through  all  the  day  that  follows  makes  her  sweeter, 

And  him  perhaps  it  only  leaves  more  bitter. 

But  you  that  have  not  love  at  all,  old  men 

That  warm  your  fingers  by  this  fire,  discreetly 

Play  out  your  morning  game  of  dominoes. 


THE  VIEW  AT  GUNDERSON'S 

Sitting  in  his  rocker  waiting  for  your  tea, 
Gazing  from  his  window,  this  is  what  you  see: 

A  cat  that  snaps  at  flies;  a  track  leading  down 
By  log-built  shanties  gray  and  brown; 

The  corner  of  a  barn,  and  tangled  lines  of  fence 
Of  rough-hewn  pickets  standing  dense; 

The  ghost  of  a  tree  on  a  dull,  wet  day; 
And  the  blanket  fog  where  lies  the  bay. 

But  when  he's  seen  the  last  of  you, 
Sitting  in  his  rocker,  what's  his  view? 

(For  there  he  sits,  day  in,  day  out, 
Nursing  his  leg — and  his  dreams,  no  doubt.) 


18  THE  NEW  POETRY 

The  snow-slide  up  behind  the  gaard; 
The  farm  beside  old  Trondjem  fjord; 

Daughters  seven  with  their  cold  blue  eyes, 
And  the  great  pine  where  his  father  lies; 

The  boat  that  brought  him  over  the  sea; 
And  the  toothless  woman  who  makes  his  tea. 

(Their  picture,  framed  on  the  rough  log  wall, 
Proves  she  had  teeth  when  he  was  tall.) 

He  sees  the  balsam  thick  on  the  hill, 
And  all  he's  cleared  with  a  stubborn  will. 

And  last  he  sees  the  full-grown  son 
For  whom  he  hoards  what  he  has  won. 

You  saw  little  worth  the  strife: 
What  he  sees  is  one  man's  life. 


William  Rose  Benet 

THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

I  flung  my  soul  to  the  air  like  a  falcon  flying. 
I  said,  "Wait  on,  wait  on,  while  I  ride  below! 
I  shall  start  a  heron  soon 
In  the  marsh  beneath  the  moon — 
A  strange  white  heron  rising  with  silver  on  its  wings, 

Rising  and  crying 
Wordless,  wondrous  things; 
The  secret  of  the  stars,  of  the  world's  heart-strings 

The  answer  to  their  woe. 
Then  stoop  thou  upon  him,  and  grip  and  hold  him  so!" 


WILLIAM  ROSE  BENfiT  19 

My  wild  soul  waited  on  as  falcons  hover. 
I  beat  the  reedy  fens  as  I  trampled  past. 
I  heard  the  mournful  loon 
In  the  marsh  beneath  the  moon. 
And  then,  with  feathery  thunder,  the  bird  of  my  desire 

Broke  from  the  cover 
Flashing  silver  fire. 
High  up  among  the  stars  I  saw  his  pinions  spire. 

The  pale  clouds  gazed  aghast 
As  my  falcon  stooped  upon  him,  and  gript  and  held  him  fast. 

My  soul  dropped  through  the  air — with  heavenly  plunder? — 
Gripping  the  dazzling  bird  my  dreaming  knew? 
Nay!  but  a  piteous  freight, 
A  dark  and  heavy  weight 
Despoiled  of  silver  plumage,  its  voice  forever  stilled — 

All  of  the  wonder 
Gone  that  ever  filled 
Its  guise  with  glory.    O  bird  that  I  have  killed, 

How  brilliantly  you  flew 
Across  my  rapturous  vision  when  first  I  dreamed  of  you! 

Yet  I  fling  my  soul  on  high  with  new  endeavor, 
And  I  ride  the  world  below  with  a  joyful  mind. 
I  shall  start  a  heron  soon 
In  the  marsh  beneath  the  moon — 
A  wondrous  silver  heron  its  inner  darkness  fledges! 

I  beat  forever 
The  fens  and  the  sedges. 
The  pledge  is  still  the  same — for  all  disastrous  pledges, 

All  hopes  resigned ! 
My  soul  still  flies  above  me  for  the  quarry  it  shall  find! 


20  THE  NEW  POETRY 


THE  HORSE  THIEF    «f 

There   he  moved,   cropping   the  grass  at  the  purple  canyon's 

Up. 
His  mane  was  mixed  with  the  moonlight  that  silvered  his  snow- 

white  side, 
For  the  moon  sailed  out  of  a  cloud  with  the  wake  of  a  spectral 

ship. 

I  crouched  and  I  crawled  on  my  belly,  my  lariat  coil  looped 
wide. 

Dimly  and  dark  the  mesas  broke  on  the  starry  sky. 

A  pall  covered  every  color  of  their  gorgeous  glory  at  noon. 
I  smelt  the  yucca  and  mesquite,  and  stifled  my  heart's  quick 

cry, 

And  wormed  and  crawled  on  my  belly  to  where  he  moved  against 
the  moon! 

Some  Moorish  barb  was  that  mustang's  sire.   His  lines  were  beyond 

all  wonder. 
From  the  prick  of  his  ears  to  the  flow  of  his  tail  he  ached  in  my 

throat  and  eyes. 
Steel  and  velvet  grace!    As  the  prophet  says,  God  had  "clothed 

his  neck  with  thunder." 

Oh,  marvelous  with  the  drifting  cloud  he  drifted  across  the 
skies! 

And  then  I  was  near  at  hand  —  crouched,  and  balanced,  and  cast 

the  coil; 
And  the  moon  was  smothered  in  cloud,  and  the  rope  through 

my  hands  with  a  rip! 
But  somehow  I  gripped  and  clung,  with  the  blood  hi  my  brain 

aboil,— 

With  a  turn  round  the  rugged  tree-stump  there  on  the  purple 
canyon's  lip. 


WILLIAM  ROSE  BENfiT  21 

Right  into  the  stars  he  reared  aloft,  his  red  eye  rolling  and  raging. 
He  whirled  and  sunfished  and  lashed,  and  rocked  the  earth  to 

thunder  and  flame. 
He  squealed  like  a  regular  devil  horse.    I  was  haggard  and  spent 

and  aging — 
Roped  clean,  but  almost  storming  clear,  his  fury  too  fierce  to  tame. 

And  I  cursed  myself  for  a  tenderfoot  moon-dazzled  to  play  the  part, 
But  I  was  doubly  desperate  then,  with  the  posse  pulled  out  from 

town, 
Or  I'd  never  have  tried  it.    I  only  knew  I  must  get  a  mount  and 

a  start. 

The  filly  had  snapped  her  foreleg  short.    I  had  had  to  shoot  her 
down. 

So  there  he  struggled  and  strangled,  and  I  snubbed  him  around 

the  tree. 

Nearer,  a  little  nearer — hoofs  planted,  and  lolling  tongue — 
Till  a  sudden  slack  pitched  me  backward.    He  reared  right  on 

top  of  me. 

Mother  of  God — that  moment!    He  missed  me  ...  and  up 
I  swung. 

Somehow,  gone  daft  completely  and  clawing  a  bunch  of  his  mane, 
As  he  stumbled  and  tripped  in  the  lariat,  there  I  was — up  and 

astride 

And  cursing  for  seven  counties!    And  the  mustang?    Just  insane! 
Crack-bang!  went  the  rope;  we  cannoned  off  the  tree — then — 
gods,  that  ride! 

A  rocket — that's  all,  a  rocket!   I  dug  with  my  teeth  and  nails. 
Why,  we  never  hit  even  the  high  spots  (though  I  hardly  remem- 
ber things), 

But  I  heard  a  monstrous  booming  like  a  thunder  of  flapping  sails 
When  he  spread — well,  call  me  a  liar! — when  he  spread  those 
wings,  those  wings! 


22  THE  NEW  POETRY 

So  white  that  my  eyes  were  blinded,  thick-feathered  and  wide 
unfurled 

They  beat  the  air  into  billows.  We  sailed,  and  the  earth  was  gone. 
Canyon  and  desert  and  mesa  withered  below,  with  the  world. 

And  then  I  knew  that  mustang;  for  I — was  Bellerophon! 

Yes,  glad  as  the  Greek,  and  mounted  on  a  horse  of  the  elder  gods, 
With  never  a  magic  bridle  or  a  fountain-mirror  nigh! 

My  chaps  and  spurs  and  holster  must  have  looked  it?    What's  the 

odds? 
I'd  a  leg  over  lightning  and  thunder,  careering  across  the  sky! 

And  forever  streaming  before  me,  fanning  my  forehead  cool, 
Flowed  a  mane  of  molten  silver;  and  just  before  my  thighs 

(As  I  gripped  his  velvet-muscled  ribs,  while  I  cursed  myself  for  a 

fool), 
The  steady  pulse  of  those  pinions — their  wonderful  fall  and  rise! 

The  bandanna  I  bought  in  Bowie  blew  loose  and  whipped  from 

my  neck. 

My  shirt  was  stuck  to  my  shoulders  and  ribboning  out  behind. 
The  stars  were  dancing,  wheeling  and  glancing,  dipping  with  smirk 

and  beck. 

The  clouds  were  flowing,  dusking  and  glowing.     We  rode  a 
roaring  wind. 

We  soared  through  the  silver  starlight  to  knock  at  the  planets'  gates. 

New  shimmering  constellations  came  whirling  into  our  ken. 
Red  stars  and  green  and  golden  swung  out  of  the  void  that  waits 

For  man's  great  last  adventure;  the  Signs  took  shape — and  then 

I  knew  the  lines  of  that  Centaur  the  moment  I  saw  him  come! 

The  musical-box  of  the  heavens  all  around  us  rolled  to  a  tune 
That  tinkled  and  chimed  and  trilled  with  silver  sounds  that  struck 
you  dumb, 

As  if  some  archangel  were  grinding  out  the  music  of  the  moon. 


WILLIAM  ROSE  BENfiT  23 

Melody-drunk  on  the  Milky  Way,  as  we  swept  and  soared  hilarious, 
Full  in  our  pathway,  sudden  he  stood — the  Centaur  of  the  Stars, 

Flashing  from  head  and  hoofs  and  breast!  I  knew  him  for  Sagittarius. 
He  reared,  and  bent  and  drew  his  bow.  He  crouched  as  a  boxer 
spars. 

Flung  back  on  his  haunches,  weird  he  loomed — then  leapt — and 

the  dim  void  lightened. 
Old  White  Wings  shied  and  swerved  aside,  and  fled  from  the 

splendor-shod. 
Through  a  flashing  welter  of  worlds  we  charged.    I  knew  why 

my  horse  was  frightened. 
He  had  two  faces — a  dog's  and  a  man's — that  Babylonian  god! 

Also,  he  followed  us  real  as  fear.    Ping!  went  an  arrow  past. 
My  broncho  buck-jumped,  humping  high.    We  plunged  ...  I 

guess  that's  all! 

I  lay  on  the  purple  canyon's  lip,  when  I  opened  my  eyes  at  last — 
Stiff  and  sore  and  my  head  like  a  drum,  but  I  broke  no  bones 
in  the  fall. 

So  you  know — and  now  you  may  string  me  up.    Such  was  the 

way  you  caught  me. 
Thank  you  for  letting  me  tell  it  straight,  though  you  never 

could  greatly  care. 
For  I  took  a  horse  that  wasn't  mine!  .  .  .    But  there's  one  the 

heavens  brought  me, 

And  I'll  hang  right  happy,  because  I  know  he  is  waiting  for  me 
up  there. 

From  creamy  muzzle  to  cannon-bone,  by  God,  he's  a  peerless 

wonder! 
He  is  steel  and  velvet  and  furnace-fire,  and  death's  supremest 

prize; 
And  never  again  shall  be  roped  on  earth  that  neck  that  is  "clothed 

with  thunder"  .  .  . 
String  m,e  up,  Dave !    Go  dig  my  grave !  /  rode  him  across  the  skies , 


24  THE  NEW  POETRY 


Maxwell  Bodenheim 

THE  REAR-PORCHES  OF  AN  APARTMENT-BUILDING 

A  sky  that  has  never  known  sun,  moon  or  stars, 

A  sky  that  is  like  a  dead,  kind  face, 

Would  have  the  color  of  your  eyes, 

O  servant-girl,  singing  of  pear-trees  in  the  sun, 

And  scraping  the  yellow  fruit  you  once  picked 

When  your  lavender-white  eyes  were  alive.  .  .  . 

On  the  porch  above  you  are  two  women, 

Whose  faces  have  the  color  of  brown  earth  that  has  never  felt  rain. 

The  still  wet  basins  of  ponds  that  have  been  drained 

Are  their  eyes. 

They  knit  gray  rosettes  and  nibble  cakes.  .  .  . 

And  on  the  top-porch  are  three  children 

Gravely  kissing  each  others'  foreheads — 

And  an  ample  nurse  with  a  huge  red  fan.  .  .  . 

The  passing  of  the  afternoon  to  them 

Is  but  the  lengthening  of  blue-black  shadows  on  brick  walls. 


THE  INTERNE 

Oh,  the  agony  of  having  too  much  power! 

In  my  passive  palm  are  hundreds  of  lives. 

Strange  alchemy! — they  drain  my  blood: 

My  heart  becomes  iron;  my  brain  copper;  my  eyes  silver;  my  lips 
brass. 

Merely  by  twitching  a  supple  finger,  I  twirl  lives  from  me — strong- 
winged, 

Or  fluttering  and  broken. 

They  are  my  children,  I  am  their  mother  and  father. 

I  watch  them  live  and  die. 


MAXWELL  BODENHEIM  25 


THE  OLD  JEW 

No  fawn-tinged  hospital  pajamas  could  cheat  him  of  his  austerity, 

Which  tamed  even  the  doctors  with  its  pure  fire. 

They  examined  him;  made  him  bow  to  them: 

Massive  altars  we're  they,  at  whose  swollen  feet  grovelled  a  wor- 
shiper. 

Then  they  laughed,  half  in  scorn  of  him;  and  there  came  a 
miracle. 

The  little  man  was  above  them  at  a  bound. 

His  austerity,  like  an  irresistible  sledge-hammer,  drove  them  lower 
and  lower: 

They  dwindled  while  he  soared. 


THE  MINER 

Those  on  the  top  say  they  know  you,  Earth — they  are  liars. 
You  are  my  father,  and  the  silence  I  work  in  is  my  mother. 
Only  the  son  knows  his  father. 
We  are  alike — sweaty,  inarticulate  of  soul,  bending  under  thick 

knowledge. 

I  drink  and  shout  with  my  brothers  when  above  you — 
Like  most  children  we  soon  forget  the  parents  of  our  souls. 
But  you  avidly  grip  us  again — we  pay  for  the  little  noise  of  life  we 

steal. 

TO  AN  ENEMY 

I  despise  my  friends  more  than  you. 

I  would  have  known  myself,  but  they  stood  before  the  mirrors 

And  painted  on  them  images  of  the  virtues  I  craved. 

You  came  with  sharpest  chisel,  scraping  away  the  false  paint. 

Then  I  knew  and  detested  myself,  but  not  you: 

For  glimpses  of  you  in  the  glasses  you  uncovered 

Showed  me  the  virtues  whose  images  you  destroyed. 


26  THE  NEW  POETRY 


TO  A  DISCARDED  STEEL  RAIL 

Straight  strength  pitched  into  the  surliness  of  the  ditch, 

A  soul  you  have — strength  has  always  delicate  secret  reasons. 

Your  soul  is  a  dull  question. 

I  do  not  care  for  your  strength,  but  for  your  stiff  smile  at  Time — 

A  smile  which  men  call  rust. 


Gordon  Bottomley 
NIGHT  AND  MORNING  SONGS 

MY  MOON 

My  moon  was  lit  in  an  hour  of  lilies; 

The  apple-trees  seemed  older  than  ever. 

It  rose  from  matted  trees  that  sever 

The  oats  from  the  meadow,  and  woke  the  fillies 

That  reared  in  dew  and  gleamed  with  dew 

And  ran  like  water  and  shadow,  and  cried. 

It  moistened  and  veiled  the  oats  yet  new, 

And  seemed  to  drip  long  drops  of  the  tide, 

Of  the  mother-sea  so  lately  left. 

Feathers  of  flower  were  each  bereft 

Of  color  and  stem,  and  floated  low; 

Another  lily  opened  then 

And  lost  a  little  gold  dust;  but  when 

The  lime-boughs  lifted  there  seemed  to  go 

Some  life  of  the  moon,  like  breath  that  moves 

Or  parting  glances  that  flutter  and  strain — 

A  ghost  with  hands  the  color  of  doves 

And  feet  the  color  of  rain. 


GORDON  BOTTOMLEY  27 


ELEGIAC  MOOD 

From  song  and  dream  for  ever  gone 

Are  Helen,  Helen  of  Troy, 

And  Cleopatra  made  to  look  upon, 

And  many  a  daring  boy — 

Young  Faust  and  Sigurd  and  Hippolytus: 

They  are  twice  dead  and  we  must  find 

Great  ladies  yet  unblemished  by  the  mind, 

Heroes  and  acts  not  cold  for  us 

In  amber  or  spirits  of  too  many  words. 

Ay,  these  are  murdered  by  much  thinking  on. 

I  hanker  even  for  new  shapes  of  swords, 

More  different  sins,  and  raptures  not  yet  done. 

Yet,  as  I  wait  on  marvels,  such  a  bird 

As  maybe  Sigurd  heard — 

A  thrush — alighting  with  a  little  run 

Out-tops  the  daisies  as  it  passes 

And  peeps  bright-eyed  above  the  grasses. 


DAWN 

A  thrush  is  tapping  a  stone     / 
With  a  snail-shell  in  its  beak; 
A  small  bird  hangs  from  a  cherry 
Until  the  stem  shall  break. 
No  waking  song  has  begun, 
And  yet  birds  chatter  and  hurry 
And  throng  in  the  elm's  gloom 
Because  an  owl  goes  home. 


28  THE  NEW  POETRY 


Rollo  Britten 

BIRD  OF  PASSION 

Leave  the  lovely  words  unsaid; 
For  another  thought  is  fled 
From  my  dream-entangled  mind. 
Bird  of  passion,  unenshrined, 
I  can  never  phrase  thee  quite — 
So  I  speed  thee  on  thy  flight, 
Unembodied  thus  forever, 
Floating  in  a  mist  that  never 
May  be  raised.    Thou  art  one 
Of  the  black-winged  birds  that  run, 
With  uncomprehended  flight, 
Unimpeded  down  the  night. 


Rupert  Brooke 

RETROSPECT 

In  your  arms  was  still  delight, 

Quiet  as  a  street  at  night; 

And  thoughts  of  you,  I  do  remember, 

Were  green  leaves  in  a  darkened  chamber, 

Were  dark  clouds  in  a  moonless  sky. 

Love,  in  you,  went  passing  by, 

Penetrative,  remote,  and  rare, 

Like  a  bird  in  the  wide  air; 

And,  as  the  bird,  it  left  no  trace 

In  the  heaven  of  your  face. 

In  your  stupidity  I  found 

The  sweet  hush  after  a  sweet  sound. 

All  about  you  was  the  light 


RUPERT  BROOKE  29 

That  dims  the  graying  end  of  night; 

Desire  was  the  unrisen  sun, 

Joy  the  day  not  yet  begun, 

With  tree  whispering  to  tree, 

Without  wind,  quietly. 

Wisdom  slept  within  your  hair, 

And  Long-suffering  was  there, 

And,  in  the  flowing  of  your  dress, 

Undiscerning  Tenderness. 

And  when  you  thought,  it  seemed  to  me, 

Infinitely,  and  like  a  sea, 

About  the  slight  world  you  had  known 

Your  vast  unconsciousness  was  thrown.  .  .  . 

O  haven  without  wave  or  tide! 

Silence,  in  which  all  songs  have  died! 

Holy  book,  where  hearts  are  still! 

And  home  at  length  under  the  hill! 

O  mother  quiet,  breasts  of  peace, 

Where  love  itself  would  faint  and  cease! 

0  infinite  deep  I  never  knew, 

1  would  come  back,  come  back  to  you, 
Find  you,  as  a  pool  unstirred, 

Kneel  down  by  you,  and  never  a  word, 
Lay  my  head,  and  nothing  said, 
In  your  hands,  ungarlanded; 
And  a  long  watch  you  would  keep; 
And  I  should  sleep,  and  I  should  sleep! 

NINETEEN-FOURTEEN 

I — PEACE 

Now,  God  be  thanked  who  has  matched  us  with  his  hour, 
And  caught  our  youth,  and  wakened  us  from  sleeping! 

With  hand  made  sure,  clear  eye,  and  sharpened  power, 
To  turn,  as  swimmers  into  cleanness  leaping, 


30  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Glad  from  a  world  grown  old  and  cold  and  weary; 

Leave  the  sick  hearts  that  honor  could  not  move, 
And  half-men,  and  their  dirty  songs  and  dreary, 

And  all  the  little  emptiness  of  love! 
Oh!  we,  who  have  known  shame,  we  have  found  release  there, 

Where  there's  no  ill,  no  grief,  but  sleep  has  mending, 

Naught  broken  save  this  body,  lost  but  breath; 
Nothing  to  shake  the  laughing  heart's  long  peace  there, 

But  only  agony,  and  that  has  ending; 
And  the  worst  friend  and  enemy  is  but  Death. 

n — SAFETY 

Dear!  of  all  happy  in  the  hour,  most  blest 

He  who  has  found  our  hid  security, 
Assured  in  the  dark  tides  of  the  world  that  rest, 

And  heard  our  word,  "Who  is  so  safe  as  we?" 
We  have  found  safety  with  all  things  undying. 

The  winds,  and  morning,  tears  of  men  and  mirth, 
The  deep  night,  and  birds  singing,  and  clouds  flying, 

And  sleep,  and  freedom,  and  the  autumnal  earth. 
We  have  built  a  house  that  is  not  for  Time's  throwing. 

We  have  gained  a  peace  unshaken  by  pain  for  ever. 
War  knows  no  power.    Safe  shall  be  my  going, 

Secretly  armed  against  all  death's  endeavor; 
Safe  though  all  safety's  lost;  safe  where  men  fall; 
And  if  these  poor  limbs  die,  safest  of  all. 

HI — THE  DEAD 

Blow  out,  you  bugles,  over  the  rich  Dead! 
There's  none  of  these  so  lonely  and  poor  of  old, 
But,  dying,  has  made  us  rarer  gifts  than  gold. 

These  laid  the  world  away;  poured  out  the  red 

Sweet  wine  of  youth;  gave  up  the  years  to  be 
Of  work  and  joy,  and  that  unhoped  serene 
That  men  call  age;  and  those  who  would  have  been 

Their  sons  they  gave,  their  immortality. 


RUPERT  BROOKE  31 

Blow,  bugles,  blow!    They  brought  us,  for  our  dearth, 
Holiness,  lacked  so  long,  and  Love,  and  Pain. 

Honor  has  come  back,  as  a  king,  to  earth, 
And  paid  his  subjects  with  a  royal  wage; 

And  Nobleness  walks  in  our  ways  again; 
And  we  have  come  into  our  heritage. 


IV — THE  DEAD 

These  hearts  were  woven  of  human  joys  and  cares, 

Washed  marvellously  with  sorrow,  swift  to  mirth. 
The  years  had  given  them  kindness.    Dawn  was  theirs, 

And  sunset,  and  the  colors  of  the  earth. 
These  had  seen  movement,  and  heard  music;  known 

Slumber  and  waking;  loved;  gone  proudly  friended; 
Felt  the  quick  stir  of  wonder;  sat  alone; 

Touched  flowers  and  furs,  and  cheeks.    All  this  is  ended. 
There  are  waters  blown  by  changing  winds  to  laughter 
And  lit  by  the  rich  skies,  all  day.    And  after, 

Frost,  with  a  gesture,  stays  the  waves  that  dance 
And  wandering  loveliness.    He  leaves  a  white 

Unbroken  glory,  a  gathered  radiance, 
A  width,  a  shining  peace,  under  the  night. 


V — THE   SOLDIER 

If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me: 

That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  for  ever  England.    There  shall  be 

In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed; 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made  aware, 

Gave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to  roam, 
A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English  air, 

Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 
And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 

A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 


32  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by  England  given; 

Her  sights  and  sounds;  dreams  happy  as  her  day; 
And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends;  and  gentleness, 

In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven. 


Witter  Bynner 
TO  CELIA 

I — CONSUMMATION 

There  was  a  strangeness  on  your  lips, 
Lips  that  had  been  so  sure; 

You  still  were  mine  but  in  eclipse, 
Beside  me  but  obscure. 

There  was  a  cloud  upon  your  heart; 

For,  Celia,  where  you  lay, 
Death,  come  to  break  your  life  apart, 

Had  led  your  love  away. 

Through  the  cold  distance  of  your  eyes 

You  could  no  longer  see. 
But  when  you  died,  you  heard  me  rise 

And  followed  suddenly. 

And  close  beside  me,  looking  down 

As  I  did  on  the  dead, 
You  made  of  time  a  wedding-gown, 

Of  space  a  marriage-bed. 

I  took,  in  you,  death  for  a  wife, 

You  married  death  hi  me, 
Singing,  "There  is  no  other  life, 

No  other  God  than  we!" 


WITTER  BYNNER  33 


H — DURING  A  CHORALE  .BY  CESAR  FRANCK 

In  an  old  chamber  softly  lit 

We  heard  the  Chorale  played, 
And  where  you  sat,  an  exquisite 
Image  of  Life  and  lover  of  it. 
Death  sang  a  serenade. 

I  know  now,  Celia,  what  you  heard, 
And  why  you  turned  and  smiled. 
It  was  the  white  wings  of  a  bird 
Offering  flight,  and  you  were  stirred 
Like  an  adventurous  child. 

Death  sang:  "Oh,  lie  upon  your  bier, 

Uplift  your  countenance!" 
Death  bade  me  be  your  cavalier, 
Called  me  to  march  and  shed  no  tear, 
But  sing  to  you  and  dance. 

And  when  you  followed,  lured  and  led 

By  those  mysterious  wings, 
And  when  I  heard  that  you  were  dead, 
I  could  not  weep.    I  sang  instead, 
As  a  true  lover  sings. 


Today  a  room  is  softly  lit; 

I  hear  the  Chorale  played. 
And  where  you  come,  an  exquisite 
Image  of  Death  and  lover  of  it, 

Life  sings  a  serenade. 


34  THE  NEW  POETRY 


m — SONGS  ASCENDING 

Love  has  been  sung  a  thousand  ways — 

So  let  it  be; 

The  songs  ascending  in  your  praise 
Through  all  my  days 

Are  three. 

Your  cloud-white  body  first  I  sing; 

Your  love  was  heaven's  blue, 
And  I,  a  bird,  flew  carolling 
In  ring  on  ring 

Of  you. 

Your  nearness  is  the  second  song; 

When  God  began  to  be, 
And  bound  you  strongly,  right  or  wrong, 
With  his  own  thong, 

Tome. 

But  oh,  the  song,  eternal,  high, 

That  tops  these  two!— 
You  live  forever,  you  who  die, 
I  am  not  I 

But  you. 


GRIEVE  NOT  FOR  BEAUTY 

Grieve  not  for  the  invisible,  transported  brow 

On  which  Like  leaves  the  dark  hair  grew, 

Nor  for  the  lips  of  laughter  that  are  now 

Laughing  inaudibly  in  sun  and  dew, 

Nor  for  those  limbs  that,  fallen  low 

And  seeming  faint  and  slow, 

Shall  yet  pursue 

More  ways  of  swiftness  than  the  swallow  dips 


JOSEPH  CAMPBELL  35 

Among  .  .  .  and  find  more  winds  than  ever  blew 
The  straining  sails  of  unimpeded  ships! 
Mourn  not! — yield  only  happy  tears 
To  deeper  beauty  than  appears! 


Joseph  Campbell 

AT  HARVEST 

Earth  travails, 

Like  a  woman  come  to  her  time. 

The  swaying  corn-haulms 

In  the  heavy  places  of  the  field 

Cry  to  be  gathered. 

Apples  redden,  and  drop  from  their  rods. 

Out  of  their  sheath  of  prickly  leaves 

The  marrows  creep,  fat  and  white. 

The  blue  pallor  of  ripeness 

Comes  on  the  fruit  of  the  vine-branch. 

Fecund  and  still  fecund 

After  aeons  of  bearing: 

Not  old,  not  dry,  not  wearied  out; 

But  fresh  as  when  the  unseen  Right  Hand 

First  moved  on  Bri, 

And  the  candle  of  day  was  set, 

And  dew  fell  from  the  stars'  feet, 

And  cloths  of  greenness  covered  thee. 

Let  me  kiss  thy  breasts: 
I  am  thy  son  and  lover. 

Womb-fellow  am  I  of  the  sunburnt  oat, 
Friendly  gossip  of  the  mearings; 


36  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Womb-fellow  of  the  dark  and  sweet-scented  apple; 
Womb-fellow  of  the  gourd  and  of  the  grape: 
Like  begotten,  like  born. 

And  yet  without  a  lover's  knowledge 
Of  thy  secrets 

I  would  walk  the  ridges  of  the  hills, 
Kindless  and  desolate. 

What  were  the  storm-driven  moon  to  me, 

Seed  of  another  father? 

What  the  overflowing 

Of  the  well  of  dawn? 

What  the  hollow, 

Red  with  rowan  fire? 

What  the  king-fern? 

What  the  belled  heath? 

What  the  drum  of  grouse's  wing, 

Or  glint  of  spar, 

Caught  from  the  pit 

Of  a  deserted  quarry? 

Let  me  kiss  thy  breasts: 
I  am  thy  son  and  lover. 


ON  WAKING 

Sleep,  gray  brother  of  death, 
Has  touched  me, 
And  passed  on. 

I  arise,  facing  the  east — 
Pearl-doored  sanctuary 
From  which  light, 
Hand-linked  with  dew  and  fire, 
Dances. 


JOSEPH  CAMPBELL  37 

Hail,  essence,  hail! 

Fill  the  windows  of  my  soul 

With  beauty: 

Pierce  and  renew  my  bones: 

Pour  knowledge  into  my  heart 

As  wine. 

Cualann  is  bright  before  thee. 

Its  rocks  melt  and  swim: 

The  secret  they  have  kept 

From  the  ancient  nights  of  darkness 

Flies  like  a  bird. 

What  mourns? 

Cualann's  secret  flying, 

A  lost  voice 

In  endless  fields. 

What  rejoices? 

My  voice  lifted  praising  thee. 

Praise!    Praise!    Praise! 

Praise  out  of  trumpets,  whose  brass 

Is  the  unyoked  strength  of  bulls; 

Praise  upon  harps,  whose  strings 

Are  the  light  movements  of  birds; 

Praise  of  leaf,  praise  of  blossom, 

Praise  of  the  red-fibred  clay; 

Praise  of  grass, 

Fire- woven  veil  of  the  temple; 

Praise  of  the  shapes  of  clouds; 

Praise  of  the  shadows  of  wells; 

Praise  of  worms,  of  fetal  things, 

And  of  the  things  in  time's  thought 

Not  yet  begotten. 

To  thee,  queller  of  sleep, 

Looser  of  the  snare  of  death. 


38  THE  NEW  POETRY 


THE  OLD  WOMAN 

As  a  white  candle 

In  a  holy  place, 
So  is  the  beauty 

Of  an  aged  face. 

As  the  spent  radiance 
Of  the  winter  sun, 

So  is  a  woman 
With  her  travail  done. 

Her  brood  gone  from  her, 
And  her  thoughts  as  still 

As  the  waters 
Under  a  ruined  mill. 


Nancy  Campbell 

THE  APPLE-TREE 

I  saw  the  archangels  in  my  apple-tree  last  night, 
I  saw  them  like  great  birds  in  the  starlight — 
Purple  and  burning  blue,  crimson  and  shining  white. 

And  each  to  each  they  tossed  an  apple  to  and  fro, 
And  once  I  heard  their  laughter  gay  and  low; 
And  yet  I  felt  no  wonder  that  it  should  be  so. 

But  when  the  apple  came  one  time  to  Michael's  lap 

I  heard  him  say:  "The  mysteries  that  enwrap 

The  earth  and  fill  the  heavens  can  be  read  here,  mayhap." 


NANCY  CAMPBELL  39 

Then  Gabriel  spoke:  "I  praise  the  deed,  the  hidden  thing." 

"The  beauty  of  the  blossom  of  the  spring 

I  praise,"  cried  Raphael.    Uriel:  "The  wise  leaves  I  sing." 

And  Michael:  "I  will  praise  the  fruit,  perfected,  round, 

Full  of  the  love  of  God,  herein  being  bound 

His  mercies  gathered  from  the  sun  and  rain  and  ground." 

So  sang  they  till  a  small  wind  through  the  branches  stirred, 
And  spoke  of  coming  dawn;  and  at  its  word 
Each  fled  away  to  heaven,  winged  like  a  bird. 


THE  MONKEY 

I  saw  you  hunched  and  shivering  on  the  stones, 
The  bleak  wind  piercing  to  your  fragile  bones, 
Your  shabby  scarlet  all  inadequate: 
A  little  ape  that  had  such  human  eyes 
They  seemed  to  hide  behind  their  miseries — 
Their  dumb  and  hopeless  bowing  down  to  fate — 
Some  puzzled  wonder.    Was  your  monkey  soul 
Sickening  with  memories  of  gorgeous  days, 
Of  tropic  playfellows  and  forest  ways, 
Where,  agile,  you  could  swing  from  bole  to  bole 
In  an  enchanted  twilight  with  great  flowers 
For  stars;  or  on  a  bough  the  long  night  hours 
Sit  out  in  rows,  and  chatter  at  the  moon? 
Shuffling  you  went,  your  tiny  chilly  hand 
Outstretched  for  what  you  did  not  understand; 
Your  puckered  mournful  face  begging  a  boon 
That  but  enslaved  you  more.    They  who  passed  by 
Saw  nothing  sorrowful;  gave  laugh  or  stare, 
Unheeding  that  the  little  antic  there 
Played  in  the  gutter  such  a  tragedy. 


40  THE  NEW  POETRY 


Skipwith  Cannell 

THE  RED  BRIDGE 

The  arches  of  the  red  bridge 
Are  stronger  than  ever: 
The  arches  of  the  scarlet  bridge 
Are  of  rough,  bleak  stone. 

(Why  should  such  massive  arches  be  the  span 
From  cloud  to  tenuous  cloud?) 


Let  us  not  seek  omens  in  the  guts 

Of  newly  slain  fowls; 
Leaving  such  play  to  the  children, 
Let  us  pluck  wild  swans 

From  under  the  moon; 
Or,  challenging  strong,  terrible  men, 

Let  us  slay  them  and  seek  truth 
In  their  smoking  entrails. 

Let  us  fling  runners 

Across  the  red  bridge, 
Deep-lunged  runners  who  will  return  to  us 
With  tidings  of  the  far  countries 
And  the  strange  seas! 


There  be  many  terrible  men 
Going  out  upon  the  bridge, 
Through  the  little  door 

That  is  by  the  steps  from  the  river. 


SKIPWITH  CANNfiLL  41 


THE   KING 

Seven  full-paunched  eunuchs  came  to  me, 
Bearing  before  them  upon  a  silver  shield 
The  secrets  of  my  enemy. 

As  they  crossed  my  threshold  to  stand, 

With  stately  and  hypocritical  gesture 

In  a  row  before  me, 

One  stumbled. 

The  dull,  incurious  eyes  of  the  others 

Blazed  into  no  laughter, 

Only  a  haggard  malice 

At  the  discomfiture 

Of  their  companion. 

Why  should  such  Things  have  power 
Not  spoken  for  in  the  rules  of  men? 


I  would  not  receive  them. 

With  my  head  covered  I  motioned  them 

To  go  forth  from  my  presence. 

Where  shall  I  find  an  enemy 
Worthy  of  me  as  him  they  defaced? 


As  they  left  me, 

Bearing  with  them 

Lewd  shield  and  scarlet  crown, 

One  paused  upon  the  threshold, 

Insolent, 

To  sniff  a  flower. 


42  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Even  him  I  permitted  to  go  forth 
Safely. 


Therefore 

I  have  renounced  my  kingdom; 

In  a  little  bronze  boat  I  have  set  sail 

Out 

Upon  the  sea. 

There  is  no  land,  and  the  sea 
Is  black  like  the  cypresses  waiting 
At  midnight  in  the  place  of  tombs; 
Is  black  like  the  pool  of  ink 
In  the  palm  of  a  soothsayer. 


My  boat 

Fears  the  white-lipped  waves 

That  snatch  at  her, 

Hungrily, 

Furtively, 

As  they  steal  past  like  cats 

Into  the  night: 

And  beneath  me,  in  their  hidden  places, 

The  great  fishes  talk  of  me 

In  a  tongue  I  have  forgotten. 


WILLA  SIBERT  GATHER  43 

Willa  Sibert  Gather 

THE  PALATINE 

Inthe"DarkAgts" 

"Have  you  been  with  the  King  to  Rome, 

Brother,  big  brother?" 
"I've  been  there  and  I've  come  home. 

Back  to  your  play,  little  brother." 

"Oh,  how  high  is  Caesar's  house, 

Brother,  big  brother?" 
"Goats  about  the  doorways  browse; 
Night-hawks  nest  in  the  burnt  roof-tree. 
Home  of  the  wild  bird  and  home  of  the  bee, 
A  thousand  chambers  of  marble  lie 
Wide  to  the  sun  and  the  wind  and  the  sky. 
Poppies  we  find  amongst  our  wheat 
Grow  on  Caesar's  banquet  seat. 
Cattle  crop  and  neat-herds  drowse 
On  the  floors  of  Caesar's  house." 

"But  what  has  become  of  Caesar's  gold, 

Brother,  big  brother?" 
"The  times  are  bad  and  the  world  is  old — 
Who  knows  the  where  of  the  Caesar's  gold? 
Night  comes  black  o'er  the  Caesar's  hill; 
The  wells  are  deep  and  the  tales  are  ill; 
Fireflies  gleam  in  the  damp  and  mold — 
All  that  is  left  of  the  Caesar's  gold. 

Back  to  your  play,  little  brother." 

"What  has  become  of  the  Caesar's  men, 

Brother,  big  brother?" 
"Dogs  in  the  kennel  and  wolf  in  the  den 
Howl  for  the  fate  of  the  Caesar's  men, 


44  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Slain  in  Asia,  slain  in  Gaul, 
By  Dacian  border  and  Persian  wall. 
Rhineland  orchard  and  Danube  fen 
Fatten  their  roots  on  Caesar's  men." 

"Why  is  the  world  so  sad  and  wide, 

Brother,  big  brother?" 
"  Saxon  boys  by  their  fields  that  bide 
Need  not  know  if  the  world  is  wide. 
Climb  no  mountain  but  Shere-end  Hill, 
Cross  no  water  but  goes  to  mill. 
Ox  in  the  stable  and  cow  in  the  byre, 
Smell  of  the  wood-smoke  and  sleep  by  the  fire; 
Sun-up  in  seed-time — a  likely  lad 
Hurts  not  his  head  that  the  world  is  sad. 

Back  to  your  play,  little  brother." 


SPANISH  JOHNNY 

The  old  West,  the  old  time, 

The  old  wind  singing  through 
The  red,  red  grass  a  thousand  miles — 

And,  Spanish  Johnny,  you! 
He'd  sit  beside  the  water  ditch 

When  all  his  herd  was  in, 
And  never  mind  a  child,  but  sing 

To  his  mandolin. 

The  big  stars,  the  blue  night, 

The  moon-enchanted  lane; 
The  olive  man  who  never  spoke, 

But  sang  the  songs  of  Spain. 
His  speech  with  men  was  wicked  talk — 

To  hear  it  was  a  sin; 
But  those  were  golden  things  he  said 

To  his  mandolin. 


PADRAIC  COLUM  45 

The  gold  songs,  the  gold  stars, 

The  word  so  golden  then; 
And  the  hand  so  tender  to  a  child — 

Had  killed  so  many  men. 
He  died  a  hard  death  long  ago 

Before  the  Road  came  in — 
The  night  before  he  swung,  he  sang 

To  his  mandolin. 


Padraic  Colum 

POLONIUS  AND  THE  BALLAD   SINGERS 

A  gaunt-built  woman  and  her  son-in-law — 
A  broad-faced  fellow,  with  such  flesh  as  shows 
Nothing  but  easy  nature — and  his  wife, 
The  woman's  daughter,  who  spills  all  her  talk 
Out  of  a  wide  mouth,  but  who  has  eyes  as  gray 
As  Connemara,  where  the  mountain-ash 
Shows  berries  red  indeed:  they  enter  now — 
Our  country  singers! 

"  Sing,  my  good  woman,  sing  us  some  romance 

That  has  been  round  your  chimney-nooks  so  long 

'Tis  nearly  native;  something  blown  here 

And  since  made  racy — like  yon  tree,  I  might  say, 

Native  by  influence  if  not  by  species, 

Shaped  by  our  winds.    You  understand,  I  think?  " 

"I'll  sing  the  song,  sir." 

To-night  you  see  my  face — 
Maybe  nevermore  you'll  gaze 
On  the  one  that  for  you  left  his  friends  and  kin; 


46  THE  NEW  POETRY 

For  by  the  hard  commands 
Of  the  lord  that  rules  these  lands 
On  a  ship  I'll  be  borne  from  Cruckaunfinn! 

Oh,  you  know  your  beauty  bright 

Has  made  him  think  delight 
More  than  from  any  fair  one  he  will  gain; 

Oh,  you  know  that  all  his  will 

Strains  and  strives  around  you  till 
As  the  hawk  upon  his  hand  you  are  as  tame! 

Then  she  to  him  replied: 

I'll  no  longer  you  deny, 
And  I'll  let  you  have  the  pleasure  of  my  charms; 

For  to-night  I'll  be  your  bride, 

And  whatever  may  betide 
It's  we  will  lie  in  one  another's  arms! 

"You  should  not  sing 
With  body  doubled  up  and  face  aside — 
There  is  a  climax  here — 'It's  we  will  lie' — 
Hem — passionate!    And  what  does  your  daughter  sing?" 

"A  song  I  like  when  I  do  climb  bare  hills — 
'Tis  all  about  a  hawk." 

No  bird  that  sits  on  rock  or  bough 

Has  such  a  front  as  thine; 
No  king  that  has  made  war  his  trade 

Such  conquest  in  his  eyne! 
I  mark  thee  rock-like  on  the  rock 

Where  none  can  see  a  shape. 
I  climb,  but  thou  dost  climb  with  wings, 

And  like  a  wish  escape, 
She  said — 

And  like  a  wish  escape! 


PADRAIC  COLUM  47 

No  maid  that  kissed  his  bonny  mouth 

Of  another  mouth  was  glad; 
Such  pride  was  in  our  chieftain's  eyes, 

Such  countenance  he  had.' 
But  since  they  made  him  fly  the  rocks, 

Thou,  creature,  art  my  quest. 
Then  lift  me  with  thy  steady  eyes. 

If  then  to  tear  my  breast, 
She  said — 

If  then  to  tear  my  breast! 

"The  songs  they  have 

Are  the  last  relics  of  the  feudal  world : 

Women  will  keep  them — byzants,  doubloons, 

When  men  will  take  up  songs  that  are  as  new 

As  dollar  bills.    What  song  have  you,  young  man?  " 

"A  song  my  father  had,  sir.    It  was  sent  him 

From  across  the  sea,  and  there  was  a  letter  with  it, 

Asking  my  father  to  put  it  to  a  tune 

And  sing  it  all  roads.    He  did  that,  in  troth, 

And  five  pounds  of  tobacco  were  sent  with  the  song 

To  fore-reward  him.    I'll  sing  it  for  you  now — 

The  Baltimore  Exile." 

The  house  I  was  bred  in — ah,  does  it  remain? 
Low  walls  and  loose  thatch  standing  lone  in  the  rain, 
With  the  clay  of  the  walls  coming  through  with  its  stain, 
Like  the  blackbird's  left  nest  in  the  briar! 


Does  a  child  there  give  heed  to  the  song  of  the  lark, 
As  it  lifts  and  it  drops  till  the  fall  of  the  dark, 
When  the  heavy-foot  kine  trudge  home  from  the  paurk, 
Or  do  none  but  the  red-shank  now  listen? 


48  THE  NEW  POETRY 

The  sloe-bush,  I  know,  grows  close  to  the  well, 
And  its  long-lasting  blossoms  are  there,  I  can  tell, 
When-  the  kid  that  was  yeaned  when  the  first  ones  befell 
Can  jump  to  the  ditch  that  they  grow  on! 

But  there's  silence  on  all.    Then  do  none  ever  pass 
On  the  way  to  the  fair  or  the  pattern  or  mass? 
Do  the  gray-coated  lads  drive  the  ball  through  the  grass 
And  speed  to  the  sweep  of  the  hurl? 

O  youths  of  my  land!    Then  will  no  Bolivar 
Ever  muster  your  ranks  for  delivering  war? 
Will  your  hopes  become  fixed  and  beam  like  a  star? 
Will  they  pass  like  the  mists  from  your  fields? 

The  swan  and  the  swallows,  the  cuckoo  and  crake, 
May  visit  my  land  and  find  hillside  and  lake. 
And  I  send  my  song.    I'll  not  see  her  awake — 
I'm  too  old  a  bird  to  uncage  now! 

"  Silver's  but  lead  in  exchange  for  songs, 
But  take  it  and  spend  it." 

"We  will.    And  may  we  meet  your  honor's  like 
Every  day's  end." 

"  A  tune  is  more  lasting  than  the  voice  of  the  birds." 
"A  song  is  more  lasting  than  the  riches  of  the  world." 

NOTE.  The  last  stanza  in  the  first  ballad  sung  is  a  fragment  of  an  old 
country  song;  the  rest  of  it,  with  the  other  two  ballads,  is  invented.  But  they 
are  all  in  the  convention  of  songs  still  sung  by  strolling  ballad-singers. 
I  have  written  the  common  word  for  pasture-field  "paurk"  so  as  not  to  give  a 
wrong  association:  it  might  be  written  "park,"  as  Burns,  using  the  word  in 
the  same  sense,  writes  it.  "Paurk"  or  "park"  is  Gaelic  for  pasture  field, 
and  is  always  used  in  Irish  country  speech  in  that  sense.  The  two  last 
lines  spoken  are  translations  of  a  Gaelic  phrase  which  has  been  used  by 
Dr.  Douglas  Hyde  as  a  motto  for  his  collection  of  Connacht  love  songs.  P.  C. 


PADRAIC  COLUM  49 


THE  SEA  BIRD  TO  THE  WAVE 

On  and  on, 

O  white  brother! 

Thunder  does  not  daunt  thee! 

How  thou  movest ! 

By  thine  impulse — 

With  no  wing! 

Fairest  thing 

The  wide  sea  shows  me,' 

On  and  on 

O  white  brother! 

Art  thou  gone! 


OLD  MEN  COMPLAINING 

First  Old  Man 

He  threw  his  crutched  stick  down:  there  came 
Into  his  face  the  anger  flame, 
And  he  spoke  viciously  of  one 
Who  thwarted  him — his  son's  son. 

^ 

He  turned  his  head  away. — "I  hate 
Absurdity  of  language,  prate 
From  growing  fellows.    We'd  not  stay 
About  the  house  the  whole  of  a  day 

When  we  were  young, 
Keeping  no  job  and  giving  tongue! 

"Not  us  in  troth!    We  would  not  come 
For  bit  or  sup,  but  stay  from  home 
If  we  gave  answers,  or  we'd  creep 
Back  to  the  house,  and  in  we'd  peep 
Just  like  a  corncrake. 

"  My  grandson  and  his  comrades  take 
A  piece  of  coal  from  you,  from  me 
A  log,  or  sod  of  turf,  maybe; 


50  THE  NEW  POETRY 

And  in  some  empty  place  they'll  light 

A  fire,  and  stay  there  all  night, 

A  wisp  of  lads!    Now  understand 

The  blades  of  grass  under  my  hand 

Would  be  destroyed  by  company! 

There's  no  good  company:  we  go 

With  what  is  lowest  to  the  low! 

He  stays  up  late,  and  how  can  he 

Rise  early?    Sure  he  lags  in  bed, 

And  she  is  worn  to  a  thread 

With  calling  him — his  grandmother. 

She's  an  old  woman,  and  she  must  make 

Stir  when  the  birds  are  half  awake 

In  dread  he'd  lose  this  job  like  the  other!" 

Second  Old  Man 

"They  brought  yon  fellow  over  here, 

And  set  him  up  for  an  overseer: 

Though  men  from  work  are  turned  away 

That  thick-necked  fellow  draws  full  pay — 

Three  pounds  a  week.  .  .  .    They  let  burn  down 

The  timber  yard  behind  the  town 

Where  work  was  good;  though  firemen  stand 

In  boots  and  brasses  big  and  grand 

The  crow  of  a  cock  away  from  the  place. 

And  with  the  yard  they  let  burn  too 

The  clock  in  the  tower,  the  clock  I  knew 

As  well  as  I  know  the  look  in  my  face." 

Third  Old  Man 

"The  fellow  you  spoke  of  has  broken  his  bounds — 
He  came  to  skulk  inside  of  these  grounds: 
Behind  the  bushes  he  lay  down 
And  stretched  full  hours  in  the  sun. 
He  rises  now,  and  like  a  crane 
He  looks  abroad.    He's  off  again: 


PADRAIC  COLUM  51 


Three  pounds  a  week,  and  still  he  owes 
Money  in  every  street  he  goes, 
Hundreds  of  pounds  where  we'd  not  get 
The  second  shilling  of  a  debt." 

First  Old  Man 

"Old  age  has  every  impediment 

Vexation  and  discontent; 

The  rich  have  more  than  we:  for  bit 

The  cut  of  bread,  and  over  it 

The  scrape  of  hog's  lard,  and  for  sup 

Warm  water  in  a  cup. 

But  different  sorts  of  feeding  breaks 

The  body  more  than  fasting  does 

With  pains  and  aches. 

"I'm  not  too  badly  off,  for  I 
Have  pipe  and  tobacco,  a  place  to  lie, 
A  nook  to  myself;  but  from  my  hand 
Is  taken  the  strength  to  back  command- 
I'm  broken,  and  there's  gone  from  me 
The  privilege  of  authority." 

I  heard  them  speak — 

The  old  men  heavy  on  the  sod, 

Letting  their  angers  come 

Between  them  and  the  thought  of  God, 


52  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Grace  Hazard  Conkling 

REFUGEES 

Belgium — 1914 

"Mother,  the  poplars  cross  the  moon; 

The  road  runs  on,  so  white  and  far, 
We  shall  not  reach  the  city  soon: 

Oh,  tell  me  where  we  are!" 

"Have  patience,  patience,  little  son, 
And  we  shall  find  the  way  again: 

(God  show  me  the  untraveled  one! 
God  give  me  rest  from  men!) " 

"Mother,  you  did  not  tell  me  why 
You  hurried  so  to  come  away. 

I  saw  big  soldiers  riding  by; 
I  should  have  liked  to  stay." 

"Hush,  little  man,  and  I  will  sing 
Just  like  a  soldier,  if  I  can — 

They  have  a  song  for  everything. 
Listen,  my  little  man! 

"This  is  the  soldiers'  marching  song: 
We'll  play  this  is  the  village  street—" 

"Yes,  but  this  road  is  very  long, 
And  stones  have  hurt  my  feet." 

"Nay,  little  pilgrim,  up  with  you! 

And  yonder  field  shall  be  the  town. 
I'll  show  you  how  the  soldiers  do 

Who  travel  up  and  down. 


ALICE  CORBIN  53 

"They  march  and  sing  and  march  again, 

Not  minding  all  the  stones  and  dust: 
They  go,  (God  grant  me  rest  from  men!) 

Forward,  because  they  must." 

"Mother,  I  want  to  go  to  sleep." 

"No,  darling!    Here  is  bread  to  eat! 
(O  God,  if  thou  couldst  let  me  weep, 

Or  heal  my  broken  feet!) " 


"THE  LITTLE  ROSE  IS  DUST,  MY  DEAR" 

The  little  rose  is  dust,  my  dear; 

The  elfin  wind  is  gone 
That  sang  a  song  of  silver  words 

And  cooled  our  hearts  with  dawn. 

And  what  is  left  to  hope,  my  dear, 

Or  what  is  left  to  say? 
The  rose,  the  little  wind  and  you 

Have  gone  so  far  away. 


Alice  Corbin 
O  WORLD 

O  world  that  changes  under  my  hand, 
O  brown  world,  bitter  and  bright, 

And  full  of  hidden  recesses 
Of  love  and  light— 

O  world,  what  use  would  there  be  to  me 

Of  power  beyond  power 
To  change,  or  establish  new  balance, 
To  build,  or  deflower? 


54  THE  NEW  POETRY 

0  world,  what  use  would  there  be? 
Had  I  the  Creator's  fire, 

1  could  not  build  you  nearer 
To  my  heart's  desire! 


TWO  VOICES 

There  is  a  country  full  of  wine 

And  liquor  of  the  sun, 

Where  sap  is  running  all  the  year, 

And  spring  is  never  done, 

Where  all  is  good  as  it  is  fair, 

And  love  and  will  are  one. 

Old  age  may  never  come  there, 

But  ever  in  to-day 

The  people  talk  as  in  a  dream 

And  laugh  slow  time  away. 

But  would  you  stay  as  now  you  are, 

Or  as  a  year  ago? 

Oh,  not  as  then,  for  then  how  small 

The  wisdom  we  did  owe! 

Or  if  forever  as  to-day, 

How  little  we  could  know! 

Then  welcome  age,  and  fear  not  sorrow; 

To-day's  no  better  than  to-morrow, 

Or  yesterday  that  flies. 

By  the  low  light  in  your  eyes, 

By  the  love  that  in  me  lies, 

I  know  we  grow  more  lovely 

Growing  wise. 


ALICE  CORBIN  55 


LOVE  ME  AT  LAST 

Love  me  at  last,  or  if  you  will  not, 

Leave  me; 
Hard  words  could  never,  as  these  half-words, 

Grieve  me: 
Love  me  at  last — or  leave  me. 

Love  me  at  last,  or  let  the  last  word  uttered 

Be  but  your  own; 
Love  me,  or  leave  me — as  a  cloud,  a  vapor, 

Or  a  bird  flown. 
Love  me  at  last — I  am  but  sliding  water 

Over  a  stone. 


HUMORESQUE 

To  some  the  fat  gods 
Give  money, 
To  some  love; 

But  the  gods  have  given  me 
Money  and  love: 

Not   too   much   money, 
Nor   quite   enough   love! 

To  some  the  fat  gods 
Give  money, 
To  some  love. 

ONE  CITY  ONLY 

One  city  only,  of  all  I  have  lived  in, 

And  one  house  of  that  city,  belong  to  me  .  .  „ 

I  remember  the  mellow  light  of  afternoon 


56  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Slanting  across  brick  buildings  on  the  waterfront, 

And  small  boats  at  rest  on  the  floating  tide, 

And  larger  boats  at  rest  in  the  near-by  harbor; 

And  I  know  the  tidal  smell,  and  the  smell  of  mud, 

Uncovering  oyster  flats,  and  the  brown  bare  toes  of  small  negroes 

With  the  mud  oozing  between  them; 

And  the  little  figures  leaping  from  log  to  log, 

And  the  white  children  playing  among  them — 

I  remember  how  I  played  among  them. 

And  I  remember  the  recessed  windows  of  the  gloomy  halls 

In  the  darkness  of  decaying  grandeur, 

The  feel  of  cool  linen  in  the  cavernous  bed, 

And  the  window  curtain  swaying  gently 

In  the  night  air; 

All  the  half-hushed  noises  of  the  street 

In  the  southern  town, 

And  the  thrill  of  life— 

Like  a  hand  in  the  dark 

With  its  felt,  indeterminate  meaning: 

I  remember  that  I  knew  there  the  stirring  of  passion, 

Fear,  and  the  knowledge  of  sin, 

Tragedy,  laughter,  death.  .  .  . 

And  I  remember,  too,  on  a  dead  Sunday  afternoon 

In  the  twilight, 

When  there  was  no  one  else  in  the  house, 

My  self  suddenly  separated  itself 

And  left  me  alone, 

So  that  the  world  lay  about  me,  lifeless. 

I  could  not  touch  it,  or  feel  it,  or  see  it; 

Yet  I  was  there. 

The  sensation  lingers: 

Only  the  most  vital  threads 

Hold  me  at  all  to  living  .  .  . 

Yet  I  only  live  truly  when  I  think  of  that  house; 

Only  enter  then  into  being. 


I 


ALICE  CORBIN  57 


One  city  only  of  all  I  have  lived  in, 
And  one  house  of  that  city,  belong  to  me. 

APPARITIONS 

i 

A  thin  gray  shadow  on  the  edge  of  thought 

Hiding  its  wounds: 

These  are  the  wounds  of  sorrow — 

It  was  my  hand  that  made  them; 

And  this  gray  shadow  that  resembles  you 

Is  my  own  heart,  weeping  .  .  . 

You  sleep  quietly  beneath  the  shade 

Of  willows  in  the  south. 


n 

When  the  cold  dawn  stood  above  the  house-tops, 
Too  late  I  remembered  the  cry 
In  the  night  of  a  wild  bird  flying 
Through  the  rain-filled  sky. 

THE  POOL 

Do  you  remember  the  dark  pool  at  Nlmes, 

The  pool  that  had  no  bottom? 

Shadowed  by  Druids  ere  the  Romans  came — 

Dark,  still,  with  little  bubbles  rising 

So  quietly  level  with  its  rim  of  stone 

That  one  stood  shuddering  with  the  breathless  fear 

Of  one  short  step? 

My  little  sister  stood  beside  the  pool 

As  dark  as  that  of  Nimes. 

I  saw  her  white  face  as  she  took  the  plunge; 

I  could  not  follow  her,  although  I  tried. 


$8  THE  NEW  POETRY 

The  silver  bubbles  circled  to  the  brink, 

And  then  the  water  parted : 

With  dream-white  face  my  little  sister  rose 

Dripping  from  that  dark  pool,  and  took  the  hands 

Outstretched  to  meet  her. 

I  may  not  speak  to  her  of  all  she's  seen; 

She  may  not  speak  to  me  of  all  she  knows, 

Because  her  words  mean  nothing: 

She  chooses  them 

As  one  to  whom  our  language  is  quite  strange, 

As  children  make  queer  words  with  lettered  blocks 

Before  they  know  the  way.  .  .  . 

My  little  sister  stood  beside  the  pool — 

I  could  not  plunge  in  with  her,  though  I  tried. 


MUSIC 

The  ancient  songs 

Pass  deathward  mournfully. 

R.A. 

The  old  songs 
Die. 

Yes,  the  old  songs  die. 
Cold  lips  that  sang  them, 
Cold  lips  that  sang  them — 
The  old  songs  die, 
And  the  lips  that  sang  them 
Are  only  a  pinch  of  dust. 

I  saw  hi  Pamplona 

In  a  musty  museum — 

I  saw  in  Pamplona 

In  a  buff -colored  museum — 

I  saw  in  Pamplona 


ALICE  CORBIN  59 

A  memorial 

Of  the  dead  violinist; 

I  saw  in  Pamplona 

A  memorial 

Of  Pablo  Sarasate. 

Dust  was  inch-deep  on  the  cases, 
Dust  on  the  stick-pins  and  satins, 
Dust  on  the  badges  and  orders, 
On  the  wreath  from  the  oak  of  Guernica! 

The  old  songs 

Die— 

And  the  lips  that  sang  them. 

Wreaths,  withered  and  dusty, 

Cuff-buttons  with  royal  insignia, 

These,  in  a  musty  museum, 

Are  all  that  is  left  of  Sarasate. 


WHAT  DIM  ARCADIAN  PASTURES 

What  dim  Arcadian  pastures 

Have  I  known 
That  suddenly,  out  of  nothing, 

A  wind  is  blown, 
Lifting  a  veil  and  a  darkness, 

Showing  a  purple  sea — 
And  under  your  hair  the  faun's  eyes 

Look  out  on  me? 


NODES 

The  endless,  foolish  merriment  of  stars 
Beside  the  pale  cold  sorrow  of  the  moon, 

Is  like  the  wayward  noises  of  the  world 
Beside  my  heart's  uplifted  silent  tune. 


60  THE  NEW  POETRY 

The  little  broken  glitter  of  the  waves 

Beside  the  golden  sun's  intense  white  blaze,  \ 

Is  like  the  idle  chatter  of  the  crowd 
Beside  my  heart's  unwearied  song  of  praise. 

The  sun  and  all  the  planets  in  the  sky 
Beside  the  sacred  wonder  of  dim  space, 

Are  notes  upon  a  broken,  tarnished  lute 
That  God  will  someday  mend  and  put  in  place. 

And  space,  beside  the  little  secret  joy 
Of  God  that  sings  forever  in  the  clay, 

Is  smaller  than  the  dust  we  can  not  see, 
That  yet  dies  not,  till  time  and  space  decay. 

And  as  the  foolish  merriment  of  stars 
Beside  the  cold  pale  sorrow  of  the  moon, 

My  little  song,  my  little  joy,  my  praise, 
Beside  God's  ancient,  everlasting  rune. 


Adelaide  Crapsey 
CINQUAINS 

NOVEMBER  NIGHT 

Listen. 

With  fault  dry  sound, 

Like  steps  of  passing  ghosts, 

The  leaves,  frost-crisp'd,  break  from  the  trees 

And  fall. 

TRIAD 

These  be 

Three  silent  things: 

The  falling  snow  ...  the  hour 


ADELAIDE  CRAPSEY  6l 

Before  the  dawn  .  .  .  the  mouth  of  one 
Just  dead. 

SUSANNA  AND  THE  ELDERS 

"Why  do 

You  thus  devise 

Evil  against  her?  "    "  For  that 

She  is  beautiful,  delicate; 

Therefore." 

THE  GUARDED  WOUND 
If  it 

Were  lighter  touch 

Than  petal  of  flower  resting 

On  grass,  oh  still  too  heavy  it  were, 

Too  heavy! 

THE  WARNING 

Just  now, 

Out  of  the  strange 

Still  dusk  ...  as  strange,  as  still  .  .  . 

A  white  moth  flew.    Why  am  I  grown 

So  cold? 

FATE  DEFIED 

As  it 

Were  tissue  of  silver 

I'll  wear,  O  fate,  thy  grey, 

And  go  mistily  radiant,  clad 

Like  the  moon. 

THE'  PLEDGE 

White  doves  of  Cytherea,  by  your  quest 
Across  the  blue  Heaven's  bluest  highest  air, 

And  by  your  certain  homing  to  Love's  breast, 
Still  to  be  true  and  ever  true — I  swear. 


62  THE  NEW  POETRY 

EXPENSES 

Little  my  lacking  fortunes  show 
For  this  to  eat  and  that  to  wear; 

Yet  laughing,  Soul,  and  gaily  go! 
An  obol  pays  the  Stygian  fare. 

ADVENTURE 

Sun  and  winct  and  beat  of  sea, 
Great  lands  stretching  endlessly  .  .  . 
Where  be  bonds  to  bind  the  free? 
All  the  world  was  made  for  me! 

DIRGE 

Never  the  nightingale, 

Oh,  my  dear, 
Never  again  the  lark 

Thou  wilt  hear; 

Though  dusk  and  the  morning  still 
Tap  at  thy  window-sill, 
Thou  ever  love  call  and  call 
Thou  wilt  not  hear  at  all, 

My  dear,  my  dear. 

'SONG 

I  make  my  shroud,  but  no  one  knows — 
So  shimmering  fine  it  is  and  fair, 
With  stitches  set  in  even  rows. 
I  make  my  shroud,  but  no  one  knows. 

In  door-way  where  the  lilac  blows, 
Humming  a  little  wandering  air, 
I  make  my  shroud  and  no  one  knows, 
So  shimmering  fine  it  is  and  fair. 


H.  D.  63 


THE  LONELY  DEATH 

In  the  cold  I  will  rise,  I  will  bathe 

In  waters  of  ice;  myself 

Will  shiver,  and  shrive  myself, 

Alone  in  the  dawn,  and  anoint 

Forehead  and  feet  and  hands; 

I  will  shutter  the  windows  from  light, 

I  will  place  in  their  sockets  the  four 

Tall  candles  and  set  them  a-flame 

In  the  grey  of  the  dawn;  and  myself 

Will  lay  myself  straight  in  my  bed, 

And  draw  the  sheet  under  my  chin. 


H.  D. 

HERMES  OF  THE  WAYS 


The  hard  sand  breaks, 
And  the  grains  of  it 
Are  clear  as  wine. 

Far  off  over  the  leagues  of  it, 

The  wind, 

Playing  on  the  wide  shore, 

Piles  little  ridges, 

And  the  great  waves 

Break  over  it. 

But  more  than  the  many-foamed  ways 
Of  the  sea, 
I  know  him 


64  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Of  the  triple  path-ways, 

Hermes, 

Who  awaiteth. 

Dubious, 

Facing  three  ways, 
Welcoming  wayfarers, 
He  whom  the  sea-orchard 
Shelters  from  the  west, 
From  the  east 
Weathers  sea-wind; 
Fronts  the  great  dunes. 

Wind  rushes 

Over  the  dunes, 

And  the  coarse,  salt-crusted  grass 

Answers. 

Heu, 

It  whips  round  my  ankles! 


Small  is 

This  white  stream, 
Flowing  below  ground 
From  the  poplar-shaded  hill, 
But  the  water  is  sweet. 

Apples  on  the  small  trees 

Are  hard, 

Too  small, 

Too  late  ripened 

By  a  desperate  sun 

That  struggles  through  sea-mist. 

The  boughs  of  the  trees 

Are  twisted 


H.  D.  65 


By  many  bafflings; 

Twisted  are 

The  small-leafed  boughs. 

But  the  shadow  of  them 

Is  not  the  shadow  of  the  mast  head 

Nor  of  the  torn  sails. 

Hermes,  Hermes, 

The  great  sea  foamed, 

Gnashed  its  teeth  about  me; 

But  you  have  waited, 

Where  sea-grass  tangles  with    / 

Shore-grass. 

PRIAPUS 

Keeper  of  Orchards 

I  saw  the  first  pear 

As  it  fell. 

The  honey-seeking,  golden-banded, 

The  yellow  swarm 

Was  not  more  fleet  than  I, 

(Spare  us  from  loveliness!) 

And  I  fell  prostrate, 

Crying, 

"Thou hast  flayed  us  with  thy  blossoms; 

Spare  us  the  beauty 

Of  fruit-trees!" 

The  honey-seeking 
Paused  not, 

The  air  thundered  their  song, 
And  I  alone  was  prostrate. 

O  rough-hewn 
God  of  the  orchard, 


66  THE  NEW  POETRY 

I  bring  thee  an  offering; 
Do  thou,  alone  unbeautiful 
(Son  of  the  god), 
Spare  us  from  loveliness. 

The  fallen  hazel-nuts, 

Stripped  late  of  their  green  sheaths, 

The  grapes,  red-purple, 

Their  berries 

Dripping  with  wine, 

Pomegranates  already  broken, 

And  shrunken  figs, 

And  quinces  untouched, 

I  bring  thee  as  offering. 

THE  POOL 

Are  you  alive? 

I  touch  you — 

You  quiver  like  a  sea-fish. 

I  cover  you  with  my  net. 

What  are  you,  banded  one? 

OREAD 

Whirl  up,  sea — 

Whirl  your  pointed  pines. 

Splash  your  great  pines 

On  our  rocks. 

Hurl  your  green  over  us — 

Cover  us  with  your  pools  of  fir. 

THE  GARDEN 

i 

You  are  clear, 

O  rose,  cut  in  rock. 


H.  D.  67 


I  could  scrape  the  color 

From  the  petals, 

Like  spilt  dye  from  a  rock. 

If  I  could  break  you 
I  could  break  a  tree. 

If  I  could  stir 

I  could  break  a  tree, 

I  could  break  you. 


O  wind,  rend  open  the  heat, 
Cut  apart  the  heat, 
Slit  it  to  tatters. 

Fruit  cannot  drop 
Through  this  thick  air; 
Fruit  cannot  fall  into  heat 
That  presses  up  and  blunts 
The  points  of  pears, 
And  rounds  grapes. 

Cut  the  heat: 
Plough  through  it, 
Turning  it  on  either  side 
Of  your  path. 


MOONRISE 

Will  you  glimmer  on  the  sea? 
Will  you  fling  your  spear-head 
On  the  shore? 
What  note  shall  we  pitch? 


68  THE  NEW  POETRY 

We  have  a  song, 

On  the  bank  we  share  our  arrows- 

The  loosed  string  tells  our  note: 

Oftight, 

Bring  her  swiftly  to  our  song. 

She  is  great, 

We  measure  her  by  the  pine-trees. 

THE  SHRINE 
"She  watches  over  the  sea" 


Are  your  rocks  shelter  for  ships? — 

Have  you  sent  galleys  from  your  beach, 

Are  you  graded — a  safe  crescent — 

Where  the  tide  lifts  them  back  to  port? 

Are  you  full  and  sweet, 

Tempting  the  quiet 

To  depart  in  their  trading  ships? 

Nay,  you  are  great,  fierce,  evil — 

You  are  the  land-blight. 

You  have  tempted  men 

But  they  perished  on  your  cliffs. 

Your  lights  are  but  dank  shoals, 
Slate  and  pebble  and  wet  shells 
And  sea-weed  fastened  to  the  rocks. 

It  was  evil — evil 

When  they  found  you, 

When  the  quiet  men  looked  at  you. 

They  sought  a  headland 

Shaded  with  ledge  of  cliff 

From  the  wind-blast. 


H.  D.  69 


But  you — you  are  unsheltered, 
Cut  with  the  weight  of  wind. 
You  shudder  when  it  strikes, 
Then  lift,  swelled  with  the  blast. 
You  sink  as  the  tide  sinks, 
You  shrill  under  hail  and  sound, 
Thunder  when  thunder  sounds. 

You  are  useless: 
When  the  tides  swirl 
Your  boulders  cut  and  wreck 
The  staggering  ships. 


You  are  useless, 

O  grave,  O  beautiful. 

The  landsmen  tell  it — I  have  heard-— 

You  are  useless. 

And  the  wind  sounds  with  this 
And  the  sea 

Where  rollers  shot  with  blue 
Cut  under  deeper  blue. 

Oh,  but  stay  tender,  enchanted 

Where  wave-lengths  cut  you 

Apart  from  all  the  rest — 

For  we  have  found  you, 

We  watch  the  splendor  of  you, 

We  thread  throat  on  throat  of  freesia 

For  your  shelf. 

You  are  not  forgot, 

O  plunder  of  lilies, 

Honey  is  not  more  sweet 

Than  the  salt  stretch  of  your  beach. 


' 


70  THE  NEW  POETRY 

m 

Stay — stay — 

But  terror  has  caught  us  now. 

We  passed  the  men  in  ships, 

We  dared  deeper  than  the  fisher-folk; 

And  you  strike  us  with  terror, 

O  bright  shaft. 

Flame  passes  under  us 

And  sparks  that  unknot  the  flesh — 

Sorrow,  splitting  bone  from  bone, 

Splendors  thwart  our  eyes 

And  rifts  in  the  splendor, 

Sparks  and  scattered  light. 

Many  warned  of  this, 
Men  said: 

"There  are  wrecks  on  the  fore-beach, 
Wind  will  beat  your  ship, 
There  is  no  shelter  in  that  headland; 
It  is  useless  waste,  that  edge, 
That  front  of  rock- 
Sea-gulls  clang  beyond  the  breakers, 
None  venture  to  that  spot." 


IV 

But  hail— 

As  the  tide  slackens, 

As  the  wind  beats  out, 

We  hail  this  shore — 

We  sing  to  you, 

Spirit  between  the  headlands 

And  the  further  rocks. 


MARY  CAROLYN  DA  VIES  71 

Though  oak-beams  split, 
Though  boats  and  sea-men  flounder, 
And  the  strait  grind  sand  with  sand 
And  cut  boulders  to  sand  and  drift — 

Your  eyes  have  pardoned  our  faults, 
Your  hands  have  touched  us; 
You  have  leaned  forward  a  little 
And  the  waves  can  never  thrust  us  back 
From  the  splendor  of  your  ragged  coast. 


Mary  Carolyn  Davies 

CLOISTERED 

To-night  the  little  girl-nun  died. 

Her  hands  were  laid 
Across  her  breast;  the  last  sun  tried 

To  kiss  her  quiet  braid; 
And  where  the  little  river  cried, 

Her  grave  was  made. 

The  little  girl-nun's  soul,  in  awe, 

Went  silently 
To  where  her  brother  Christ  she  saw, 

Under  the  Living  Tree; 
He  sighed,  and  his  face  seemed  to  draw 

Her  tears,  to  see. 

He  laid  his  hands  on  her  hands  mild, 

And  gravely  blessed; 
"Blind,  they  that  kept  you  so,"  ht,  smiled, 

With  tears  unguessed. 
"  Saw  they  not  Mary  held  a  child 

Upon  her  breast?" 


72  THE  NEW  POETRY 

SONGS  OF  A  GIRL 

i 

Perhaps, 

God,  planting  Eden, 

Dropped,  by  mistake,  a  seed 

In  Time's  neighbor-plot, 

That  grew  to  be 

This  hour? 

n 

You  and  I  picked  up  Life  and  looked  at  it  curiously; 
We  did  not  know  whether  to  keep  it  for  a  plaything  or  not. 
It  was  beautiful  to  see,  like  a  red  firecracker, 
And  we  knew,  too,  that  it  was  lighted. 
We  dropped  it  while  the  fuse  was  still  burning.  .  . 

m 

I  am  going  to  die  too,  flower,  in  a  little  while — 
Do  not  be  so  proud. 

IV 

The  sun  is  dying 

Alone 

On  an  island 

In  the  bay. 

Close  your  eyes,  poppies — 

I  would  not  have  you  see  death. 

You  are  so  young! 

V 

The  sun  falls 

Like  a  drop  of  blood 

From  some  hero. 

We, 

Who  love  pain, 
Delight  in  this. 


FANNIE  STEARNS  DAVIS  73 

Fannie  Stearns  Davis 

PROFITS 

Yes,  stars  were  with  me  formerly. 

(I  also  knew  the  wind  and  sea; 

And  hill-tops  had  my  feet  by  heart. 

Their  shagged  heights  would  sting  and  start 

When  I  came  leaping  on  their  backs. 

I  knew  the  earth's  queer  crooked  cracks, 

Where  hidden  waters  weave  a  low 

And  djuid  chant  of  joy  and  woe.) 

But  stars  were  with  me  most  of  all. 
I  heard  them  flame  and  break  and  fall. 
Their  excellent  array,  their  free 
Encounter  with  Eternity, 
I  learned.    And  it  was  good  to  know 
That  where  God  walked,  I  too  might  go. 

Now,  all  these  things  are  passed.    For  I 
Grow  very  old  and  glad  to  die. 
What  did  they  profit  me,  say  you, 
These  distant  bloodless  things  I  knew? 

Profit?    What  profit  hath  the  sea 
Of  her  deep-throated  threnody? 
What  profit  hath  the  sun,  who  stands 
Staring  on  space  with  idle  hands? 
And  what  should  God  Himself  acquire 
From  all  the  aeons'  blood  and  fire? 

My  profit  is  as  theirs:  to  be 
Made  proof  against  mortality: 
To  know  that  I  have  companied 
With  all  that  shines  and  lives,  amid 


74  THE  NEW  POETRY 

So  much  the  years  sift  through  their  hands, 
Most  mortal,  windy,  worthless  sands. 

This  day  I  have  great  peace.    With  me 
Shall  stars  abide  eternally! 

SOULS 

My  soul  goes  clad  in  gorgeous  things, 

Scarlet  and  gold  and  blue. 
And  at  her  shoulder  sudden  wings 

Like  long  flames  flicker  through. 

And  she  is  swallow-fleet,  and  free 
From  mortal  bonds  and  bars. 

She  laughs,  because  eternity 
Blossoms  for  her  with  stars! 

O  folk  who  scorn  my  stiff  gray  gown, 

My  dull  and  foolish  face, 
Can  ye  not  see  my  soul  flash  down, 

A  singing  flame  through  space? 

And  folk,  whose  earth-stained  looks  I  hate, 

Why  may  I  not  divine 
Your  souls,  that  must  be  passionate, 

Shining  and  swift,  as  mine? 


Walter  de  la  Mare 

THE  LISTENERS 

"Is  there  anybody  there?"  said  the  Traveller, 

Knocking  on  the  moonlit  door; 
And  his  horse  in  the  silence  champed  the  grasses 

Of  the  forest's  ferny  floor; 
And  a  bird  flew  up  out  of  the  turret, 

Above  the  Traveller's  head; 


WALTER  DE  LA  MARE  75 

And  he  smote  upon  the  door  again  a  second  time; 

"Is  there  anybody  there?"  he  said. 
But  no  one  descended  to  the  Traveller; 

No  head  from  the  leaf-fringed  sill 
Leaned  over  and  looked  into  his  grey  eyes, 

Where  he  stood  perplexed  and  still. 
But  only  a  host  of  phantom  listeners 

That  dwelt  in  the  lone  house  then 
Stood  listening  in  the  quiet  of  the  moonlight 

To  that  voice  from  the  world  of  men: 
Stood  thronging  the  faint  moonbeams  on  the  dark  stair, 

That  goes  down  to  the  empty  hall, 
Hearkening  in  an  air  stirred  and  shaken 

By  the  lonely  Traveller's  call. 
And  he  felt  in  his  heart  their  strangeness, 

Their  stillness  answering  his  cry, 
While  his  horse  moved,  cropping  the  dark  turf, 

'Neath  the  starred  and  leafy  sky; 
For  he  suddenly  smote  on  the  door,  even 

Louder,  and  lifted  his  head: — 
"Tell  them  I  came,  and  no  one  answered 

That  I  kept  my  word,"  he  said. 
Never  the  least  stir  made  the  listeners, 

Though  every  word  he  spake 
Fell  echoing  through  the  shadowiness  of  the  still  house 

From  the  one  man  left  awake: 
Ay,  they  heard  his  foot  upon  the  stirrup, 

And  the  sound  of  iron  on  stone, 
And  how  the  silence  surged  softly  backward, 

When  the  plunging  hoofs  were  gone. 

AN  EPITAPH 

Here  lies  a  most  beautiful  lady: 

Light  of  step  and  heart  was  she; 

I  think  she  was  the  most  beautiful  lady 


76  THE  NEW  POETRY 

That  ever  was  in  the  West  Country. 
But  beauty  vanishes;  beauty  passes; 
However  rare — rare  it  be; 
And  when  I  crumble,  who  will  remember 
This  lady  of  the  West  Country? 


Lee  Wilson  Dodd 

THE  TEMPLE 

Hear  me,  brother! 

Boldly  I  stepped  into  the  Temple, 

Into  the  Temple  where  the  God  dwells 

Veiled  with  Seven  Veils, 

Into  the  Temple  of  Unbroken  Silence: 

And  my  joyous  feet  shod  with  crimson  sandals 

Rang  out  on  the  tesselated  pavement, 

Rang  out  fearlessly 

Like  a  challenge  and  a  cry! 

And  there — in  that  shrouded  solitude, 

There— before  the  Seven  Veils, 

There — because  of  youth  and  youth's  madness, 

Because  of  love  and  love's  unresting  heart, 

There  did  I  sing  three  songs! 

And  my  first  song  praised  the  eyes  of  a  wanton; 

And  my  second  song  praised  the  lips  of  a  wanton; 

And  my  third  song  praised  the  feet  of  a  dancing  girl! 

Thus  did  I  desecrate  the  Temple, 

Thus  did  I  stand  before  the  Seven  Veils, 

Proudly! 

Thus  did  I  wait  upon  the  God's  Voice — 

Proudly!— 

And  the  sudden  shaft  of  death.  , 


LEE  WILSON  DODD  77 


But  no  Voice  stirred  the  Seven  Veils, 
Though  I  stood  long.  .  .  . 

And  my  knees  shook, 

My  bones  were  afraid.  .  .  . 

Swiftly  I  loosed  the  crimson  sandals, 
And,  tearing  them  from  off  my  feet, 
Crept  shuddering  forth! 

Hear  me,  brother! 

Now  am  I  as  one  stricken  with  palsy, 
Now  am  I  sick  with  the  close  ache  of  terror, 
Now  am  I  as  one  who,  having  tasted  poison, 
Cowers,  waiting  for  the  pang! 

For  the  God  spake  not.  .  .  . 

And  the  sense  of  my  littleness  is  upon  me: 

And  I  am  a  worm  in  my  own  sight, 

Trodden  and  helpless; 

A  casual  grain  of  sand 

Indistinguishable  amid  a  million  grains: 

And  I  take  no  pleasure  now  in  youth 

Nor  in  youth's  madness, 

In  love 

Nor  in  love's  unresting  heart; 

And  I  praise  no  longer  the  eyes  of  a  wanton, 

Nor  the  lips  of  a  wanton, 

Nor  the  light  feet  of  a  dancing  girl. 


THE  COMRADE 

Call  me  friend  or  foe, 

Little  I  care! 
I  go  with  all  who  go 

Daring  to  dare. 


78  THE  NEW  POETRY 


I  am  the  force, 

I  am  the  fire, 
I  am  the  secret  source 

Of  desire. 

I  am  the  urge, 

The  spur  and  thong: 
Moon  of  the  tides  that  surge 

Into  song! 

Call  me  friend  or  foe, 

Little  care  I, 
I  go  with  all  who  go 

Singing  to  die. 

Call  me  friend  or  foe.  .  .  . 

Taking  to  give, 
I  go  with  all  who  go 

Dying  to  live. 


John  Drinkwater 

SUNRISE  ON  RYDAL  WATER 

To  E.  de  S. 

Come  down  at  dawn  from  windless  hills 

Into  the  valley  of  the  lake, 
Where  yet  a  larger  quiet  fills 

The  hour,  and  mist  and  water  make 
With  rocks  and  reeds  and  island  boughs 

One  silence  and  one  element, 
Where  wonder  goes  surely  as  once 

It  went 
By  Galilean  prows. 


JOHN  DR1NKWATER  79 

Moveless  the  water  and  the  mist, 

Moveless  the  secret  air  above, 
Hushed,  as  upon  some  happy  tryst 

The  poised  expectancy  of  love; 
What  spirit  is  it  that  adores 

What  mighty  presence  yet  unseen? 
What  consummation  works  apace 

Between 
These  rapt  enchanted  shores? 


Never  did  virgin  beauty  wake 

Devouter  to  the  bridal  feast 
Than  moves  this  hour  upon  the  lake 

In  adoration  to  the  east. 
Here  is  the  bride  a  god  may  know, 

The  primal  will,  the  young  consent, 
Till  surely  upon  the  appointed  mood 

Intent 
The  god  shall  leap — and,  lo, 

Over  the  lake's  end  strikes  the  sun — 

White,  flameless  fire;  some  purity 
Thrilling  the  mist,  a  splendor  won 

Out  of  the  world's  heart.    Let  there  be 
Thoughts,  and  atonements,  and  desires; 

Proud  limbs,  and  undeliberate  tongue; 
Where  now  we  move  with  mortal  care 

Among 
Immortal  dews  and  fires. 


So  the  old  mating  goes  apace, 

Wind  with  the  sea,  and  blood  with  thought, 
Lover  with  lover;  and  the  grace 

Of  understanding  comes  unsought 


80  THE  NEW  POETRY 

When  stars  into  the  twilight  steer, 
Or  thrushes  build  among  the  may, 

Or  wonder  moves  between  the  hills, 
And  day 
Comes  up  on  Rydal  mere. 


Louise  Driscoll 

THE  METAL  CHECKS 

[The  scene  is  a  bare  room,  with  two  shaded  windows  at  the  back,  and  a  fire- 
place between  them  with  a  fire  burning  low.  The  room  contains  a  few 
plain  chairs,  and  a  rough  wooden  table  on  which  are  piled  many  small 
wooden  trays.  THE  COUNTER,  who  is  Death,  sits  at  the  table.  He 
wears  a  loose  gray  robe,  and  his  face  is  partly  concealed  by  a  gray  veil. 
THE  BEARER  is  the  World,  that  bears  the  burden  of  War.  He  wears  a 
soiled  robe  of  brown  and  green  and  he  carries  on  his  back  a  gunny-bag 
filled  with  the  little  metal  disks  that  have  been  used  for  the  identification 
of  the  slain  common  soldiers.] 

The  Bearer 

Here  is  a  sack,  a  gunny  sack, 

A  heavy  sack  I  bring. 
Here  is  toll  of  many  a  soul — 

But  not  the  soul  of  a  king. 

This  is  the  toll  of  common  men, 

Who  lived  in  the  common  way; 
Lived  upon  bread  and  wine  and  love, 

In  the  light  of  the  common  day. 

This  is  the  toll  of  working  men, 

Blood  and  brawn  and  brain. 
Who  shall  render  us  again 

The  worth  of  all  the  slain? 


LOUISE  DRISCOLL  8l 


The  Counter 

Pour  them  out  on  the  table  here. 

C  1  i  c  k  e  t  y— c  1  i  c  k  e  t  y— c  lack! 
For  every  button  a  man  went  out, 
And  who  shall  call  him  back? 

C 1  i  c  k  e  t  y— c  1  i  c  k  e  t  y— c  lack! 

One — two — three — four — 

Every  disk  a  soul! 
Three  score — four  score — 
So  many  boys  went  out  to  war. 
Pick  up  that  one  that  fell  on  the  floor — 

Didn't  you  see  it  roll? 
That  was  a  man  a  month  ago. 
This  was  a  man.    Row  upon  row — 
Pile  them  in  tens  and  count  them  so. 

The  Bearer 

I  have  an  empty  sack. 

It  is  not  large.    Would  you  have  said 
That  I  could  carry  on  my  back 

So  great  an  army — and  all  dead? 

[As  THE  COUNTER  speaks  THE  BEARER  lays  the  sack  over  his  arm  and 
helps  count.] 

The  Counter 

Put  a  hundred  in  each  tray — 
We  can  tally  them  best  that  way. 
Careful — do  you  understand 
You  have  ten  men  in  your  hand? 
There's  another  fallen — there — 
Under  that  chair. 

[THE  BEARER  finds  it  and  restores  it.] 

That  was  a  man  a  month  ago; 
He  could  see  and  feel  and  know. 


82  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Then,  into  his  throat  there  sped 

A  bit  of  lead. 

Blood  was  salt  in  his  mouth;  he  fell 

And  lay  amid  the  battle  wreck. 

Nothing  was  left  but  this  metal  check — 

And  a  wife  and  child,  perhaps. 

[THE  BEARER  finds  the  bag  on  his  arm  troublesome.  He  holds  it  up,  in- 
specting it.] 

The  Bearer 

What  can  one  do  with  a  thing  like  this? 

Neither  of  life  nor  death  it  is! 

For  the  dead  serve,  not,  though  it  served  the  dead. 

The  wounds  it  carried  were  wide  and  red, 

Yet  they  stained  it  not.    Can  a  man  put  food, 

Potatoes  or  wheat,  or  even  wood 

That  is  kind  and  burns  with  a  flame  to  warm 

Living  men  who  are  comforted — 

In  a  thing  that  has  served  so  many  dead? 

There  is  no  thrift  in  a  graveyard  dress, 

It's  been  shroud  for  too  many  men. 

I'll  burn  it  and  let  the  dead  bless. 

[He  crosses  himself  and  throws  it  into  the  fire.  He  -watches  it  burn.  THE 
COUNTER  continues  to  pile  up  the  metal  checks,  and  drop  them  by  hun- 
dreds into  the  trays  which  he  piles  one  upon  another.  THE  BEARER 
turns  from  the  fire  and  speaks  more  slowly  than  before.  He  indi- 
cates the  metal  checks.] 

Would  not  the  blood  of  these  make  a  great  sea 
For  men  to  sail  their  ships  on?    It  may  be 
No  fish  would  swim  in  it,  and  the  foul  smell 
Would  make  the  sailors  sick.    Perhaps  in  Hell 
There's  some  such  lake  for  men  who  rush  to  war 
Prating  of  glory,  and  upon  the  shore 
Will  stand  the  wives  and  children  and  old  men 
Bereft,  to  drive  them  back  again 


LOUISE  DRISCOLL  83 

When  they  seek  haven.  Some  such  thing 
I  thought  the  while  I  bore  it  on  my  back 
And  heard  the  metal  pieces  clattering. 

The  Counter 

Four  score — five  score — 
These  and  as  many  more. 
Forward — march! — into  the  tray! 
No  bugles  blow  today, 
No  captains  lead  the  way; 
But  mothers  and  wives, 
Fathers,  sisters,  little  sons, 
Count  the  cost 
Of  the  lost; 

And  we  count  the  unlived  lives, 
The  forever  unborn  ones 
Who  might  have  been  your  sons. 

The  Bearer 

Could  not  the  hands  of  these  rebuild 

That  which  has  been  destroyed? 

Oh,  the  poor  hands!  that  once  were  strong  and  filled 

With  implements  of  labor  whereby  they 

Served  home  and  country  through  the  peaceful  day. 

When  those  who  made  the  war  stand  face  to  face 

With  these  slain  soldiers  in  that  unknown  place 

Whither  the  dead  go,  what  will  be  the  word 

By  dead  lips  spoken  and  by  dead  ears  heard? 

Will  souls  say  King  or  Kaiser?    Will  souls  prate 

Of  earthly  glory  in  that  new  estate? 

The  Counter 

One  hundred  thousand — 

One  hundred  and  fifty  thousand — 

Two  hundred — 


84  THE  NEW  POETRY 

The  Bearer 

Can  this  check  plough? 

Can  it  sow?  can  it  reap? 
Can  we  arouse  it? 

Is  it  asleep? 

Can  it  hear  when  a  child  cries? — 

Comfort  a  wife? 
This  little  metal  disk 

Stands  for  a  lif e. 

Can  this  check  build, 
Laying  stone  upon  stone? 

Once  it  was  warm  flesh 
Folded  on  bone. 

Smew  and  muscle  firm, 

Look  at  it — can 
This  little  metal  check 

Stand  for  a  man? 

The  Counter 

One — two — three — four — 


Dorothy  Dudley 

LA  RUE  DE  LA  MONTAGNE  SAINTE-GfiNEVlfcVE 

I  have  seen  an  old  street  weeping — 

Narrow,  dark,  ascending; 

Water  o'er  the  spires 

Of  a  church  descending; 

The  church  thrice  veiled — in  rain, 

In  the  shadow  of  the  years, 


DOROTHY  DUDLEY  85 

In  the  grace  of  old  design; 

Dim  dwellings,  blind  with  tears, 

Rotting  either  side 

The  winding  passage  way, 

To  where  the  river  crosses 

Weeping,  under  gray 

And  limpid  heavens  weeping. 

Gardens  I  have  seen 

Through  arched  doors,  whose  gratings 

Ever  cry  the  keen 

Dim  melodies  of  lace 

Long  used  and  rare,  gardens 

With  an  old-time  grace 

Vibrating,  dimly  trembling 

In  the  music  of  the  rain. 

Roses  I  have  seen  drip  a  f  aint 

Perfume,  and  lilacs  train 

A  quivering  loveliness 

From  door  to  arched  door, 

Passing  by  in  flower  carts; 

While  waters  ever  pour 

O'er  the  white  stones  of  the  fountain, 

Melting  icily  away 

Half  way  up  the  mountain; 

Where  to  mingle  tears  with  tears, 

Their  clothes  misshapen,  sobbing, 

Two  or  three  old  women, 

In  wooden  sabots  hobbling, 

Meet  to  fill  their  pitchers, 

From  the  stream  of  water  leaping 

Through  the  lips,  a  long  time  parted, 

Of  a  face  grotesquely  weeping — 

A  carven  face  forever  weeping. 


86  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Helen  Dudley 

TO  ONE  UNKNOWN 

I  have  seen  the  proudest  stars 
That  wander  on  through  space, 

Even  the  sun  and  moon, 
But  not  your  face. 

I  have  heard  the  violin, 
The  winds  and  waves  rejoice 

In  endless  minstrelsy, 
Yet  not  your  voice. 

I  have  touched  the  trillium, 
Pale  flower  of  the  land, 

Coral,  anemone, 
And  not  your  hand. 

I  have  kissed  the  shining  feet 
Of  Twilight  lover-wise, 

Opened  the  gates  of  Dawn — 
Oh,  not  your  eyes! 

I  have  dreamed  unwonted  things, 
Visions  that  witches  brew, 

Spoken  with  images, 
Never  with  you. 

SONG 

A  few  more  windy  days 

Must  come  and  go  their  ways, 

And  we  will  walk 

My  love  and  I 

Beneath  the  amber-dripping  boughs. 


MAX  EASTMAN  87 

Then  on  the  stars  we'll  tread, 

On  purple  stars  and  red, 

And  wonder  why 

The  while  we  talk 

Men  sing  so  much  of  broken  vows. 


Max  Eastman 

DIOGENES 

A  hut,  and  a  tree, 

And  a  hill  for  me, 
And  a  piece  of  a  weedy  meadow. 

I'll  ask  no  thing, 

Of  God  or  king, 
But  to  clear  away  his  shadow. 

IN  MARCH 

On  a  soaked  fence-post  a  little  blue-backed  bird, 

Opening  her  sweet  throat,  has  stirred 

A  million  music-ripples  in  the  air 

That  curl  and  circle  everywhere. 

They  break  not  shallow  at  my  ear, 

But  quiver  far  within.    Warm  days  are  near! 

AT  THE  AQUARIUM 

Serene  the  silver  fishes  glide, 
Stern-lipped,  and  pale,  and  wonder-eyed! 
As  through  the  aged  deeps  of  ocean, 
They  glide  with  wan  and  wavy  motion! 
They  have  no  pathway  where  they  go, 


88  THE  NEW  POETRY 

They  flow  like  water  to  and  fro. 

They  watch  with  never  winking  eyes, 

They  watch  with  staring,  cold  surprise, 

The  level  people  in  the  air, 

The  people  peering,  peering  there: 

Who  wander  also  to  and  fro, 

And  know  not  why  or  where  they  go, 

Yet  have  a  wonder  in  their  eyes, 

Sometimes  a  pale  and  cold  surprise. 


T.  S.  Eliot 

PORTRAIT  OF  A  LADY 


Among  the  smoke  and  fog  of  a  December  afternoon 

You  have  the  scene  arrange  itself — as  it  will  seem  to  do — 

With  "I  have  saved  this  afternoon  for  you"; 

And  four  wax  candles  in  the  darkened  room, 

Four  rings  of  light  upon  the  ceiling  overhead: 

An  atmosphere  of  Juliet's  tomb 

Prepared  for  all  the  things  to  be  said,  or  left  unsaid. 

We  have  been,  let  us  say,  to  hear  the  latest  Pole 
Transmit  the  Preludes,  through  his  hair  and  finger-tips. 
"  So  intimate,  this  Chopin,  that  I  think  his  soul 
Should  be  resurrected  only  among  friends — 
Some  two  or  three,  who  will  not  touch  the  bloom 
That  is  rubbed  and  questioned  in  the  concert  room." 

And  so  the  conversation  slips 
Among  velleities  and  carefully  caught  regrets, 
Through  attenuated  tones  of  violins 
Mingled  with  remote  cornets, 


T.  S.  ELIOT  89 

And  begins: 

"You  do  not  know  how  much  they  mean  to  me,  my  friends; 

And  how,  how  rare  and  strange  it  is,  to  find, 

In  a  life  composed  so  much,  so  much  of  odds  and  ends — 

(For  indeed  I  do  not  love  it  ...  you  knew?  you  are  not  blind! 

How  keen  you  are!) 

To  find  a  friend  who  has  these  qualities, 

Who  has,  and  gives 

Those  qualities  upon  which  friendship  lives: 

How  much  it  means  that  I  say  this  to  you — 

Without  these  friendships — life,  what  cauchemart" 

Among  the  windings  of  the  violins, 

And  the  ariettes 

Of  cracked  cornets, 

Inside  my  brain  a  dull  tom-tom  begins 

Absurdly  hammering  a  prelude  of  its  own — 

Capricious  monotone 

That  is  at  least  one  definite  "false  note." 

Let  us  take  the  air,  in  a  tobacco  trance, 

Admire  the  monuments, 

Discuss  the  late  events, 

Correct  our  watches  by  the  public  clocks; 

Then  sit  for  half  an  hour  and  drink  our  bocks. 


Now  that  lilacs  are  in  bloom 

She  has  a  bowl  of  lilacs  in  her  room 

And  twists  one  in  her  fingers  while  she  talks. 

"Ah  my  friend,  you  do  not  know,  you  do  not  know 

What  life  is,  you  who  hold  it  in  your  hands — " 

(Slowly  twisting  the  lilac  stalks) ; 

"You  let  it  flow  from  you,  you  let  it  flow, 

And  youth  is  cruel,  and  has  no  remorse, 

And  smiles  at  situations  which  it  cannot  see." 

I  smile,  of  course, 


QO  THE  NEW  POETRY 

And  go  on  drinking  tea. 

"Yet  with  these  April  sunsets,  that  somehow  recall 

My  buried  life,  and  Paris  in  the  spring, 

I  feel  immeasurably  at  peace,  and  find  the  world 

To  be  wonderful  and  youthful,  after  all." 

The  voice  returns  like  the  insistent  out-of-tune 
Of  a  broken  violin  on  an  August  afternoon: 
"I  am  always  sure  that  you  understand 
My  feelings,  always  sure  that  you  feel, 
Sure  that  across  the  gulf  you  reach  your  hand. 

"You  are  invulnerable,  you  have  no  Achilles*  heel. 
You  will  go  on,  and  when  you  have  prevailed 
You  can  say:  'At  this  point  many  a  one  has  failed.' 
But  what  have  I,  but  what  have  I,  my  friend, 
To  give  you,  what  can  you  receive  from  me? 
Only  the  friendship  and  the  sympathy 
Of  one  about  to  reach  her  journey's  end. 

"I  shall  sit  here,  serving  tea  to  friends  .  .  ." 

I  take  my  hat:  how  can  I  make  a  cowardly  amends 
For  what  she  has  said  to  me? 

You  will  see  me  any  morning  in  the  park 

Reading  the  comics  and  the  sporting  page. 

Particularly  I  remark 

An  English  countess  goes  upon  the  stage, 

A  Greek  was  murdered  at  a  Polish  dance, 

Another  bank  defaulter  has  confessed. 

I  keep  my  countenance, 

I  remain  self-possessed 

Except  when  a  street  piano,  mechanical  and  tired, 

Reiterates  some  worn-out  common  song, 

With  the  smell  of  hyacinths  across  the  garden 

Recalling  things  that  other  people  have  desired. 

Are  these  ideas  right  or  wrong? 


T.  S.  ELIOT  91 

in 

The  October  night  comes  down .   Returning  as  before, 
Except  for  a  slight  sensation  of  being  ill  at  ease, 
I  mount  the  stairs  and  turn  the  handle  of  the  door 
And  feel  as  if  I  had  mounted  on  my  hands  and  knees. 

"And  so  you  are  going  abroad;  and  when  do  you  return? 

But  that's  a  useless  question. 

You  hardly  know  when  you  are  coming  back, 

You  will  find  so  much  to  learn." 

My  smile  falls  heavily  among  the  bric-a-brac. 

"Perhaps  you  can  write  to  me." 

My  self-possession  flares  up  for  a  second; 

This  is  as  I  had  reckoned. 

"I  have  been  wondering  frequently  of  late 

(But  our  beginnings  never  know  our  ends!) 

Why  we  have  not  developed  into  friends." 

I  feel  like  one  who  smiles,  and  turning  shall  remark 

Suddenly,  his  expression  in  a  glass. 

My  self-possession  gutters;  we  are  really  in  the  dark. 

"  For  everybody  said  so,  all  our  friends, 

They  all  were  sure  our  feelings  would  relate 

So  closely!    I  myself  can  hardly  understand. 

We  must  leave  it  now  to  fate. 

You  will  write,  at  any  rate. 

Perhaps  it  is  not  too  late. 

I  shall  sit  here,  serving  tea  to  friends." 

And  I  must  borrow  every  changing  shape 

To  find  expression  .  .  .  dance,  dance 

Like  a  dancing  bear, 

Cry  like  a  parrot,  chatter  like  an  ape. 

Let  us  take  the  air,  in  a  tobacco  trance  .  .  . 


92  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Well!  and  what  if  she  should  die  some  afternoon, 

Afternoon  gray  and  smoky,  evening  yellow  and  rose; 

Should  die  and  leave  me  sitting  pen  in  hand 

With  the  smoke  coming  down  above  the  house  tops; 

Doubtful,  for  quite  a  while 

Not  knowing  what  to  feel  or  if  I  understand 

Or  whether  wise  or  foolish,  tardy  or  too  soon.  .  .  . 

Would  she  not  have  the  advantage,  after  all? 

This  music  is  successful  with  a  "dying  fall" 

Now  that  we  talk  of  dying— 

And  should  I  have  the  right  to  smile? 


Arthur  Davison  Ficke 

MEETING 

Gray-robed  Wanderer  in  sleep  .  .  .  Wanderer  .  .  . 

You  also  move  among 

Those  silent  halls 

Dim  on  the  shore  of  the  unsailed  deep? 

And  your  footfalls,  yours  also,  Wanderer, 

Faint  through  those  twilight  corridors  have  rung? 

Of  late  my  eyes  have  seen  .  .  .  Wanderer  .  .  . 

Amid  the  shadows'  gloom 

Of  that  sleep-girdled  place 

I  should  have  known  such  joy  could  not  have  been — 

To  see  your  face:  and  yet,  Wanderer, 

What  hopes  seem  vain  beneath  the  night  in  bloom? 

Wearily  I  awake  .  .  .  Wanderer  .  .  . 

Your  look  of  old  despair, 

Like  a  dying  star, 

In  morning  vanishes.    But  for  all  memories'  sake, 

Though  you  are  far,  tonight,  O  Wanderer, 

Tonight  come,  though  in  silence,  to  the  shadows  there 


ARTHUR  DAVISON  FICKE  93 


AMONG  SHADOWS 

In  halls  of  sleep  you  wandered  by, 
This  time  so  indistinguishably 
I  cannot  remember  aught  of  it, 
Save  that  I  know  last  night  we  met. 
I  know  it  by  the  cloudy  thrill 
That  in  my  heart  is  quivering  still; 
And  sense  of  loveliness  forgot 
Teases  my  fancy  out  of  thought. 
Though  with  the  night  the  vision  wanes, 
Its  haunting  presence  still  may  last — 
As  odor  of  flowers  faint  remains 
In  halls  where  late  a  queen  has  passed. 


THE  THREE  SISTERS 

Gone  are  the  three,  those  sisters  rare 
With  wonder-lips  and  eyes  ashine. 

One  was  wise  and  one  was  fair, 
And  one  was  mine. 

Ye  mourners,  weave  for  the  sleeping  hair 

Of  only  two,  your  ivy  vine. 
For  one  was  wise  and  one  was  fair, 

But  one  was  mine. 


PORTRAIT  OF  AN  OLD  WOMAN 

She  limps  with  halting  painful  pace, 
Stops,  wavers,  and  creeps  on  again; 

Peers  up  with  dim  and  questioning  face 
Void  of  desire  or  doubt  or  pain. 


94  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Her  cheeks  hang  gray  in  waxen  folds 
Wherein  there  stirs  no  blood  at  all. 

A  hand  like  bundled  cornstalks  holds 
The  tatters  of  a  faded  shawl. 

Where  was  a  breast,  sunk  bones  she  clasps; 

A  knot  jerks  where  were  woman-hips; 
A  ropy  throat  sends  writhing  gasps 

Up  to  the  tight  line  of  her  lips. 

Here  strong  the  city's  pomp  is  poured  .  .  . 

She  stands,  unhuman,  bleak,  aghast: 
An  empty  temple  of  the  Lord 

From  which  the  jocund  Lord  has  passed. 

He  has  builded  him  another  house, 

Whenceforth  his  flame,  renewed  and  bright, 

Shines  stark  upon  these  weathered  brows 
Abandoned  to  the  final  night. 


I  AM  WEARY  OF  BEING  BITTER 

I  am  weary  of  being  bitter  and  weary  of  being  wise, 
And  the  armor  and  the  mask  of  these  fall  from  me,  after  long. 

I  would  go  where  the  islands  sleep,  or  where  the  sea-dawns  rise, 
And  lose  my  bitter  wisdom  in  the  wisdom  of  a  song. 

There  are  magics  in  melodies,  unknown  of  the  sages; 

The  powers  of  purest  wonder  on  secret  wings  go  by. 
Doubtless  out  of  the  silence  of  dumb  preceding  ages 

Song  woke  the  chaos-world — and  light  swept  the  sky. 

All  that  we  know  is  idle;  idle  is  all  we  cherish; 

Idle  the  will  that  takes  loads  that  proclaim  it  strong. 
For  the  knowledge,  the  strength,  the  burden — all  shall  perish : 

One  thing  only  endures,  one  thing  only — song. 


ARTHUR  DAVISON  FICKE  95 


FROM  "SONNETS  OF  A  PORTRAIT  PAINTER" 

I  am  in  love  with  high  far-seeing  places 

That  look  on  plains  half-sunlight  and  half-storm, 

In  love  with  hours  when  from  the  circling  faces 

Veils  pass,  and  laughing  fellowship  glows  warm. 

You  who  look  on  me  with  grave  eyes  where  rapture 

And  April  love  of  living  burn  confessed — 

The  Gods  are  good!  the  world  lies  free  to  capture! 

Life  has  no  walls.    Oh,  take  me  to  your  breast! 

Take  me — be  with  me  for  a  moment's  span! 

I  am  in  love  with  all  unveiled  faces. 

I  seek  the  wonder  at  the  heart  of  man; 

I  would  go  up  to  the  far-seeing  places. 

While  youth  is  ours,  turn  toward  me  for  a  space 

The  marvel  of  your  rapture-lighted  face! 

There  are  strange  shadows  fostered  of  the  moon, 
More  numerous  than  the  clear-cut  shade  of  day.  .  .  . 
Go  forth,  when  all  the  leaves  whisper  of  June, 
Into  the  dusk  of  swooping  bats  at  play; 
Or  go  into  that  late  November  dusk 
When  hills  take  on  the  noble  lines  of  death, 
And  on  the  air  the  faint  astringent  musk 
Of  rotting  leaves  pours  vaguely  troubling  breath. 
Then  shall  you  see  shadows  whereof  the  sun 
Knows  nothing — aye,  a  thousand  shadows  there 
Shall  leap  and  flicker  and  stir  and  stay  and  run, 
Like  petrels  of  the  changing  foul  or  fair; 
Like  ghosts  of  twilight,  of  the  moon,  of  him 
Whose  homeland  lies  past  each  horizon's  rim.  .  .  0 


96  THE  NEW  POETRY 


LIKE  HIM  WHOSE  SPIRIT 

Like  him  whose  spirit  in  the  blaze  of  noon 

Still  keeps  the  memory  of  one  secret  star 

That  in  the  dusk  of  a  remembered  June 

Thrilled  the  strange  hour  with  beauty  from  afar — 

And  perilous  spells  of  twilight  snare  his  heart, 

And  wistful  moods  his  common  thoughts  subdue, 

And  life  seethes  by  him  utterly  apart — 

Last  night  I  dreamed,  today  I  dream,  of  you. 

Gleams  downward  strike;  bright  bubbles  upward  hover 

Through  the  charmed  air;  far  sea- winds  cool  my  brow. 

Invisible  lips  tell  me  I  shall  discover 

Today  a  temple,  a  mystery,  a  vow  .  .  . 

The  cycle  rounds:  only  the  false  seems  true. 

Last  night  I  dreamed,  today  I  dream,  of  you. 


John  Gould  Fletcher 

IRRADIATIONS 
I 

Over  the  roof-tops  race  the  shadows  of  clouds: 

Like  horses  the  shadows  of  clouds  charge  down  the  street. 

Whirlpools  of  purple  and  gold, 

Winds  from  the  mountains  of  cinnabar, 

Lacquered  mandarin  moments,  palanquins  swaying  and  balancing 

Amid  the  vermilion  pavilions,  against  the  jade  balustrades; 

Glint  of  the  glittering  wings  of  dragon-flies  in  the  light; 

Silver  filaments,  golden  flakes  settling  downwards; 

Rippling,  quivering  flutters;  repulse  and  surrender, 

The  sun  broidered  upon  the  rain, 

The  rain  rustling  with  the  sun. 


JOHN  GOULD  FLETCHER  97 

Over  the  roof-tops  race  the  shadows  of  clouds: 

Like  horses  the  shadows  of  clouds  charge  down  the  street. 


O  seeded  grass,  you  army  of  little  men 

Crawling  up  the  low  slopes  with  quivering  quick  blades  of  steel: 

You  who  storm  millions  of  graves,  tiny  green  tentacles  of  earth, 

Interlace  your  tangled  webs  tightly  over  my  heart 

And  do  not  let  me  go: 

For  I  would  lie  here  for  ever  and  watch  with  one  eye 

The  pilgrimaging  ants  in  your  dull  savage  jungles, 

While  with  the  other  I  see  the  long  lines  of  the  slope 

Break  in  mid  air,  a  wave  surprisingly  arrested; 

And  above  it,  wavering,  bodiless,  colorless,  unreal, 

The  long  thin  lazy  fingers  of  the  heat. 

m 

Not  noisily,  but  solemnly  and  pale, 

In  a  meditative  ecstasy,  you  entered  life, 

As  for  some  strange  rite,  to  which  you  alone  held  the  clue. 

Child,  life  did  not  give  rude  strength  to  you; 

From  the  beginning  you  would  seem  to  have  thrown  away, 

As  something  cold  and  cumbersome,  that  armor  men  use  against 

death. 
You  would  perchance  look  on  death  face  to  face  and  from  him 

wrest  the  secret 

Whether  his  face  wears  oftenest  a  smile  or  no? 
Strange,  old  and  silent  being,  there  is  something 
Infinitely  vast  in  your  intense  tininess: 
I  think  you  could  point  out  with  a  smile  some  curious  star 
Far  off  in  the  heavens  which  no  man  has  seen  before. 

IV 

The  morning  is  clean  and  blue,  and  the  wind  blows  up  the  clouds; 
Now  my  thoughts,  gathered  from  afar, 


98  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Once  again  in  their  patched  armor,  with  rusty  plumes  and  blunted 

swords, 
Move  out  to  war. 

Smoking  our  morning  pipes  we  shall  ride  two  and  two 

Through  the  woods. 

For  our  old  cause  keeps  us  together, 

And  our  hatred  is  so  precious  not  death  or  defeat  can  break  it. 

God  willing,  we  shall  this  day  meet  that  old  enemy 
Who  has  given  us  so  many  a  good  beating. 
Thank  God,  we  have  a  cause  worth  fighting  for, 
And  a  cause  worth  losing,  and  a  good  song  to  sing! 


ARIZONA  POEMS 

MEXICAN  QUARTER 

By  an  alley  lined  with  tumble-down  shacks, 

And  street-lamps  askew,  half-sputtering, 

Feebly  glimmering  on  gutters  choked  with  filth,  and  dogs 

Scratching  their  mangy  backs: 

Half-naked  children  are  running  about, 

Women  puff  cigarettes  in  black  doorways, 

Crickets  are  crying. 

Men  slouch  sullenly 

Into  the  shadows. 

Behind  a  hedge  of  cactus, 

The  smell  of  a  dead  horse 

Mingles  with  the  smell  of  tamales  frying. 

And  a  girl  in  a  black  lace  shawl 

Sits  in  a  rickety  chair  by  the  square  of  unglazed  window, 

And  sees  the  explosion  of  the  stars 

Fiercely  poised  on  the  velvet  sky. 

And  she  seems  humming  to  herself: 


JOHN  GOULD  FLETCHER  99 

"Stars,  if  I  could  reach  you 

(You  are  so  very  near  that  it  seems  as  if  I  could  reach  you), 

I  would  give  you  all  to  the  Madonna's  image 

On  the  gray  plastered  altar  behind  the  paper  flowers, 

So  that  Juan  would  come  back  to  me, 

And  we  could  live  again  those  lazy  burning  hours, 

Forgetting  the  tap  of  my  fan  and  my  sharp  words, 

And  I  would  only  keep  four  of  you — 

Those  two  blue- white  ones  overhead, 

To  put  in  my  ears, 

And  those  two  orange  ones  yonder 

To  fasten  on  my  shoe-buckles." 

A  little  further  along  the  street 

A  man  squats  stringing  a  brown  guitar. 

The  smoke  of  his  cigarette  curls  round  his  hair, 

And  he  too  is  humming,  but  other  words: 

"Think  not  that  at  your  window  I  wait. 

New  love  is  better,  the  old  is  turned  to  hate. 

Fate!    Fate!    All  things  pass  away; 

Life  is  forever,  youth  is  but  for  a  day. 

Love  again  if  you  may 

Before  the  golden  moons  are  blown  out  of  the  sky 

And  the  crickets  die. 

Babylon  and  Samarkand 

Are  mud  walls  in  a  waste  of  sand." 

RAIN  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  huge  red-buttressed  mesa  over  yonder 

Is  merely  a  far-off  temple  where  the  sleepy  sun  is  burning 

Its  altar  fires  of  pinyon  and  toyon  for  the  day. 

The  old  priests  sleep,  white-shrouded; 

Their  pottery  whistles  lie  beside  them,  the  prayer-sticks  closely 

feathered. 
On  every  mummied  face  there  glows  a  smile. 


loo  THE  NEW  POETRY 

The  sun  is  rolling  slowly 

Beneath  the  sluggish  folds  of  the  sky-serpents, 

Coiling,  uncoiling,  blue  black,  sparked  with  fires. 

The  old  dead  priests 

Feel  in  the  thin  dried  earth  that  is  heaped  about  them, 

Above  the  smell  of  scorching,  oozing  pinyon, 

The  acrid  smell  of  rain. 

And  now  the  showers 

Surround  the  mesa  like  a  troop  of  silver  dancers: 
Shaking  their  rattles,  stamping,  chanting,  roaring, 
Whirling,  extinguishing  the  last  red  wisp  of  light. 


THE  BLUE  SYMPHONY 


The  darkness  rolls  upward. 

The  thick  darkness  carries  with  it 

Rain  and  a  ravel  of  cloud. 

The  sun  comes  forth  upon  earth. 


Palely  the  dawn 
Leaves  me  facing  timidly 
Old  gardens  sunken: 
And  in  the  gardens  is  water. 

Sombre  wreck-autumnal  leaves; 

Shadowy  roofs 

In  the  blue  mist, 

And  a  willow-branch  that  is  broken. 

O  old  pagodas  of  my  soul,  how  you  glittered  across  green  trees! 


JOHN  GOULD  "XEiafEK 

Blue  and  cool : 

Blue,  tremulously, 

Blow  faint  puffs  of  smoke 

Across  sombre  pools. 

The  damp  green  smell  of  rotted  wood; 

And  a  heron  that  cries  from  out  the  water. 


Through  the  upland  meadows 

I  go  alone. 

For  I  dreamed  of  someone  last  night 

Who  is  waiting  for  me. 

Flower  and  blossom,  tell  me  do  you  know  of  her? 
Have  the  rocks  hidden  her  voice? 
They  are  very  blue  and  still. 

Long  upward  road  that  is  leading  me, 
Light  hearted  I  quit  you, 
For  the  long  loose  ripples  of  the  meadow-grass 
Invite  me  to  dance  upon  them. 

Quivering  grass, 
Daintily  poised 
For  her  foot's  tripping. 

O  blown  clouds,  could  I  only  race  up  like  you! 
Oh,  the  last  slopes  that  are  sun-drenched  and  steep! 

Look,  the  sky! 

Across  black  valleys 

Rise  blue-white  aloft 

Jagged  unwrinkled  mountains,  ranges  of  death. 

Solitude.    Silence. 


102  THE  NEW  POETRY 

m 

One  chuckles  by  the  brook  for  me: 
One  rages  under  the  stone. 
One  makes  a  spout  of  his  mouth, 
One  whispers — one  is  gone. 

One  over  there  on  the  water 
Spreads  cold  ripples 
For  me 
Enticingly. 

The  vast  dark  trees 
Flow  like  blue  veils 
Of  tears 
Into  the  water. 

Sour  sprites, 

Moaning  and  chuckling, 

What  have  you  hidden  from  me? 

"In  the  palace  of  the  blue  stone  she  lies  forever 
Bound  hand  and  foot." 

Was  it  the  wind 

That  rattled  the  reeds  together? 

Dry  reeds, 

A  faint  shiver  in  the  grasses. 

IV 

On  the  left  hand  there  is  a  temple: 
And  a  palace  on  the  right-hand  side. 
Foot-passengers  in  scarlet 
Pass  over  the  glittering  tide. 


JOHN  GOULD  FLETCHER  103 


Under  the  bridge 
The  old  river  flows 
Low  and  monotonous 
'Day  after  day. 

I  have  heard  and  have  seen 
All  the  news  that  has  been: 
Autumn's  gold  and  Spring's  green! 

Now  in  my  palace 
I  see  foot-passengers 
Crossing  the  river, 
Pilgrims  of  autumn 
In  the  afternoons. 

Lotus  pools; 
Petals  in  the  water: 
Such  are  my  dreams. 

For  me  silks  are  outspread. 
I  take  my  ease,  unthinking. 


And  now  the  lowest  pine-branch 
Is  drawn  across  the  disk  of  the  sun. 
Old  friends  who  will  forget  me  soon, 
I  must  go  on 

Towards  those  blue  death  mountains 
I  have  forgot  so  long. 

In  the  marsh  grasses 

There  lies  forever 

My  last  treasure, 

With  the  hope  of  my  heart. 

The  ice  is  glazing  over; 
Torn  lanterns  flutter, 
On  the  leaves  is  snow. 


104  THE  NEW  POETRY 

In  the  frosty  evening 
Toll  the  old  bell  for  me 
Once,  in  the  sleepy  temple. 
Perhaps  my  soul  will  hear. 


Afterglow: 

Before  the  stars  peep 

I  shall  creep  into  the  darkness. 


F.  S.  Flint 
POEMS  IN  UNRHYMED  CADENCE 


London,  my  beautiful, 

It  is  not  the  sunset 

Nor  the  pale  green  sky 

Shimmering  through  the  curtain 

Of  the  silver  birch, 

Nor  the  quietness; 

It  is  not  the  hopping 

Of  the  little  birds 

Upon  the  lawn, 

Nor  the  darkness 

Stealing  over  all  things 

That  moves  me. 

But  as  the  moon  creeps  slowly 

Over  the  tree-tops 

Among  the  stars, 

I  think  of  her 

And  the  glow  her  passing 

Sheds  on  men. 


F.  S.  FLINT  105 


London,  my  beautiful, 

I  will  climb 

Into  the  branches 

To  the  moonlit  tree-tops, 

That  my  blood  may  be  cooled 

By  the  wind. 


Under  the  lily  shadow 
And  the  gold 
And  the  blue  and  mauve 
That  the  whin  and  the  lilac 
Pour  down  on  the  water, 
The  fishes  quiver. 

Over  the  green  cold  leaves 
And  the  rippled  silver 
And  the  tarnished  copper 
Of  its  neck  and  beak, 
Toward  the  deep  black  water 
Beneath  the  arches, 
The  swan  floats  slowly. 

Into  the  dark  of  the  arch  the  swan  floats 
And  the  black  depth  of  my  sorrow 
Bears  a  white  rose  of  flame. 

m — IN  THE  GARDEN 

The  grass  is  beneath  my  head; 

And  I  gaze 

At  the  thronging  stars 

In  the  aisles  of  night. 

They  fall  .  .  .  they  fall.  .  .  . 
I  am  overwhelmed, 
And  afraid. 


106  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Each  little  leaf  of  the  aspen 
Is  caressed  by  the  wind, 
And  each  is  crying. 

And  the  perfume 
Of  invisible  roses 
Deepens  the  anguish. 

Let  a  strong  mesh  of  roots 
Feed  the  crimson  of  roses 
Upon  my  heart; 
And  then  fold  over  the  hollow 
Where  all  the  pain  was. 


Moireen  Fox 

LIADAIN  TO  CURITHIR 

Liadain  and  Curithir  were  two  poets  who  lived  in  Ireland  in  the  seventh 
century.  They  fell  in  love,  but  while  Curithir  was  absent  making  prepara- 
tions for  their  marriage,  Liadain,  for  some  unexplained  reason,  took  the 
vows  of  a  nun.  Curithir  in  despair  became  a  monk.  At  first  they  continued 
to  see  each  other,  but  when  this  led  to  the  breaking  of  their  vows,  Curithir 
left  Liadain  to  spend  his  life  in  penance  and  thus  save  his  soul. 


If  I  had  known  how  narrow  a  prison  is  love, 
Never  would  I  have  given  the  width  of  the  skies 
In  return  for  thy  kiss,  O  Curithir,  thou  my  grief! 

If  I  had  known  love's  poverty,  I  would  have  given 
Duns  and  forests  and  ploughlands  and  begged  my  bread: 
For  now  I  have  lost  the  earth  and  the  stars  and  my  soul. 


MOIREEN  FOX  107 

If  I  had  known  the  strength  of  love,  I  would  have  laid 
The  ridge  of  the  world  in  ashes  to  stay  his  feet: 
I  would  have  cried  on  a  stronger  lord — on  Death. 


I,  that  was  wont  to  pass  by  all  unmoved 

As  the  long  ridge  of  the  tide  sweeps  to  the  shore, 

Am  broken  at  last  on  the  crags  of  a  pitiless  love. 

I,  who  was  wont  to  see  men  pale  at  my  glance, 

Like  the  quivering  grass  am  shaken  beneath  thine  eyes; 

At  thy  touch  my  spirit  is  captive,  my  will  is  lost. 

I  would  darken  the  sun  and  moon  to  break  from  thy  love, 
I  would  shatter  the  world  to  win  thee  again  to  my  side. 
O  aching  madness  of  love!    Have  the  dead  repose? 
Or  wilt  thou  tear  my  heart  in  the  close-shut  grave? 


m 

I  have  done  with  blame,  I  have  risen  from  the  cold  earth 
Where  night  and  day  my  forehead  has  known  the  clay. 
With  faltering  steps  I  have  passed  out  to  the  sun. 

Now  in  the  sight  of  all  I  stand,  that  all  may  know 
(For  I  myself  will  praise  thee  and  prove  their  words) 
How  great  was  thy  wisdom  in  turning  away  from  me. 

Who  that  has  drunken  wine  will  keep  the  lees? 
Who  that  has  slain  a  man  will  wait  for  revenge? 
Who  that  has  had  his  desire  of  a  woman  will  stay? 

Farewell,  O  Curithir,  let  thy  soul  be  saved! 
I  have  not  found  a  thing  that  is  dearer  to  thee. 
In  the  eyes  of  God  is  it  priceless?    Who  can  say! 


108  THE  NEW  POETRY 

My  soul  is  a  thing  of  little  worth  unto  God: 

Of  less  worth  unto  thee,  O  Curithir,  than  my  love. 

And  unto  me  so  small  I  flung  it  beneath  thy  feet. 

IV 

If  the  dark  earth  hold  a  Power  that  is  not  God 
I  pray  It  to  bind  up  memory  lest  I  die. 

There  was  a  day  when  Curithir  loved  me,  now  it  is  gone. 

It  was  I  that  sundered  his  love  from  me,  I  myself; 

Or  it  was  God  who  struck  me  with  madness  and  mocked. 

If  the  dark  earth  hold  a  Power  that  is  not  God 
I  pray  It  to  hide  me  for  ever  away  from  His  face. 


Ah1  things  are  outworn  now — grief  is  dead, 

And  passion  has  fallen  from  me  like  a  withered  leaf. 

Little  it  were  to  me  now  though  Curithir  were  beside  me; 

Though  he  should  pass  I  would  not  turn  my  head. 

My  heart  is  like  a  stone  in  my  body. 

All  I  have  grasped  I  loose  again  from  my  hands. 


Florence  Kiper  Frank 

THE  JEWISH  CONSCRIPT 

There  are  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  million  Jews  in  the  Czar's  army  alone. 
Newspaper  clipping. 

They  have  dressed  me  up  in  a  soldier's  dress, 

With  a  rifle  in  my  hand, 
And  have  sent  me  bravely  forth  to  shoot 

My  own  in  a  foreign  land. 


FLORENCE  KIPER  FRANK  109 

Oh,  many  shall  die  for  the  fields  of  their  homes, 

And  many  in  conquest  wild; 
But  I  shall  die  for  the  fatherland 

That  murdered  my  little  child. 

How  many  hundreds  of  years  ago — 

The  nations  wax  and  cease! — 
Did  the  God  of  our  fathers  doom  us  to  bear 

The  flaming  message  of  peace! 

We  are  the  mock  and  the  sport  of  time! 

Yet  why  should  I  complain! — 
For  a  Jew  that  they  hung  on  the  bloody  cross, 

He  also  died  in  vain. 

THE  MOVIES 

She  knows  a  cheap  release 

From  worry  and  from  pain — 
The  cowboys  spur  their  horses 

Over  the  unending  plain. 

The  tenement  rooms  are  small; 

Their  walls  press  on  the  brain. 
Oh,  the  dip  of  the  galloping  horses 

On  the  limitless,  wind-swept  plain! 

YOU 

I  go  my  way  complacently, 

As  self-respecting  persons  should. 
You  are  to  me  the  rebel  thought, 

You  are  the  wayward  rebel  mood. 

What  shall  we  share  who  are  separate? 

We  part — as  alien  persons  should. 
But  oh,  I  have  need  of  the  rebel  thought, 

And  a  wicked  urge  to  the  rebel  mood! 


110  THE  NEW  POETRY 


Robert  Frost 

MENDING  WALL 

Something  there  is  that  doesn't  love  a  wall, 

That  sends  the  frozen  ground-swell  under  it, 

And  spills  the  upper  boulders  in  the  sun; 

And  makes  gaps  even  two  can  pass  abreast. 

The  work  of  hunters  is  another  thing: 

I  have  come  after  them  and  made  repair 

Where  they  have  left  not  one  stone  on  stone, 

But  they  would  have  the  rabbit  out  of  hiding, 

To  please  the  yelping  dogs.    The  gaps  I  mean, 

No  one  has  seen  them  made  or  heard  them  made, 

But  at  spring  mending-time  we  find  them  there. 

I  let  my  neighbor  know  beyond  the  hill; 

And  on  a  day  we  meet  to  walk  the  line 

And  set  the  wall  between  us  once  again. 

We  keep  the  wall  between  us  as  we  go. 

To  each  the  boulders  that  have  fallen  to  each. 

And  some  are  loaves  and  some  so  nearly  balls 

We  have  to  use  a  spell  to  make  them  balance: 

"Stay  where  you  are  until  our  backs  are  turned!" 

We  wear  our  fingers  rough  with  handling  them. 

Oh,  just  another  kind  of  out-door  game, 

One  on  a  side.    It  comes  to  little  more: 

There  where  it  is  we  do  not  need  the  wall: 

He  is  all  pine  and  I  am  apple  orchard. 

My  apple  trees  will  never  get  across 

And  eat  the  cones  under  his  pines,  I  tell  him. 

He  only  says,  "Good  fences  make  good  neighbors." 

Spring  is  the  mischief  in  me,  and  I  wonder 

If  I  could  put  a  notion  in  his  head: 

"Why  do  they  make  good  neighbors?    Isn't  it 

Where  there  are  cows?    But  here  there  are  no  cows. 


ROBERT  FROST  III 

Before  I  built  a  wall  I'd  ask  to  know 

What  I  was  walling  in  or  walling  out, 

And  to  whom  I  was  like  to  give  offence. 

Something  there  is  that  doesn't  love  a  wall, 

That  wants  it  down."    I  could  say  "Elves"  to  him, 

But  it's  not  elves  exactly,  and  I'd  rather 

He  said  it  for  himself.    I  see  him  there 

Bringing  a  stone  grasped  firmly  by  the  top 

In  each  hand,  like  an  old-stone  savage  armed. 

He  moves  in  darkness  as  it  seems  to  me, 

Not  of  woods  only  and  the  shade  of  trees. 

He  will  not  go  behind  his  father's  saying, 

And  he  likes  having  thought  of  it  so  well 

He  says  again,  "Good  fences  make  good  neighbors." 

AFTER  APPLE-PICKING 

My  long  two-pointed  ladder's  sticking  through  a  tree 

Toward  heaven  still, 

And  there's  a  barrel  that  I  didn't  fill 

Beside  it,  and  there  may  be  two  or  three 

Apples  I  didn't  pick  upon  some  bough. 

But  I  am  done  with  apple-picking  now. 

Essence  of  winter  sleep  is  on  the  night, 

The  scent  of  apples:  I  am  drowsing  off. 

I  cannot  rub  the  strangeness  from  my  sight 

I  got  from  looking  through  a  pane  of  glass 

I  skimmed  this  morning  from  the  drinking  trough 

And  held  against  the  world  of  hoary  grass. 

It  melted,  and  I  let  it  fall  and  break. 

But  I  was  well 

Upon  my  way  to  sleep  before  it  fell, 

And  I  could  tell 

What  form  my  dreaming  was  about  to  take. 

Magnified  apples  appear  and  disappear, 

Stem  end  and  blossom  end, 


112  THE  NEW  POETRY 

And  every  fleck  of  russet  showing  clear. 

My  instep  arch  not  only  keeps  the  ache, 

It  keeps  the  pressure  of  a  ladder-round. 

I  feel  the  ladder  sway  as  the  boughs  bend. 

And  I  keep  hearing  from  the  cellar  bin 

The  rumbling  sound 

Of  load  on  load  of  apples  coming  in. 

For  I  have  had  too  much 

Of  apple-picking:  I  am  overtired 

Of  the  great  harvest  I  myself  desired. 

There  were  ten  thousand  thousand  fruit  to  touch, 

Cherish  in  hand,  lift  down,  and  not  let  fall. 

For  all 

That  struck  the  earth, 

No  matter  if  not  bruised  or  spiked  with  stubble, 

Went  surely  to  the  cider-apple  heap 

As  of  no  worth. 

One  can  see  what  will  trouble 

This  sleep  of  mine,  whatever  sleep  it  is. 

Were  he  not  gone, 

The  woodchuck  could  say  whether  it's  like  his 

Long  sleep,  as  I  describe  its  coming  on, 

Or  just  some  human  sleep. 

MY  NOVEMBER  GUEST 

My  Sorrow,  when  she's  here  with  me, 
Thinks  these  dark  days  of  autumn  rain 

Are  beautiful  as  days  can  be; 

She  loves  the  bare,  the  withered  tree; 
She  walks  the  sodden  pasture  lane. 

Her  pleasure  will  not  let  me  stay. 

She  talks  and  I  am  fain  to  list: 
She's  glad  the  birds  are  gone  away, 
She's  glad  her  simple  worsted  grey 

Is  silver  now  with  clinging  mist. 


ROBERT  FROST  113 

The  desolate,  deserted  trees, 

The  faded  earth,  the  heavy  sky, 
The  beauties  she  so  truly  sees, 
She  thinks  I  have  no  eye  for  these, 

And  vexes  me  for  reason  why. 

Not  yesterday  I  learned  to  know 

The  love  of  bare  November  days 
Before  the  coming  of  the  snow; 
But  it  were  vain  to  tell  her  so, 

And  they  are  better  for  her  praise. 

MOWING 

There  was  never  a  sound  beside  the  wood  but  one, 

And  that  was  my  long  scythe  whispering  to  the  ground. 

What  was  it  it  whispered?    I  knew  not  well  myself; 

Perhaps  it  was  something  about  the  heat  of  the  sun, 

Something,  perhaps,  about  the  lack  of  sound — 

And  that  was  why  it  whispered  and  did  not  speak. 

It  was  no  dream  of  the  gift  of  idle  hours, 

Or  easy  cold  at  the  hand  of  fay  or  elf: 

Anything  more  than  the  truth  would  have  seemed  too  weak 

To  the  earnest  love  that  laid  the  swale  in  rows — 

Not  without  feeble-pointed  spikes  of  flowers 

(Pale  orchises) — and  scared  a  bright  green  snake. 

The  fact  is  the  sweetest  dream  that  labor  knows. 

My  long  scythe  whispered  and  left  the  hay  to  make. 

STORM  FEAR 

When  the  wind  works  against  us  in  the  dark, 
And  pelts  with  snow 
The  lower  chamber  window  on  the  east, 
And  whispers  with  a  sort  of  stifled  bark, 
The  beast, 


114  THE  NEW  POETRY 

"  Come  out !    Come  out !  "— 

It  costs  no  inward  struggle  not  to  go, 

Ah,  no! 

I  count  our  strength, 

Two  and  a  child, 

Those  of  us  not  asleep  subdued  to  mark 

How  the  cold  creeps  as  the  fire  dies  at  length — 

How  drifts  are  piled, 

Dooryard  and  road  ungraded, 

Till  even  the  comforting  barn  grows  far  away, 

And  my  heart  owns  a  doubt 

Whether  'tis  in  us  to  arise  with  day 

And  save  ourselves  unaided. 


GOING  FOR  WATER 

The  well  was  dry  beside  the  door, 
And  so  we  went  with  pail  and  can 

Across  the  fields  behind  the  house 
To  seek  the  brook  if  still  it  ran; 

Not  loth  to  have  excuse  to  go, 
Because  the  autumn  eve  was  fair 

(Though  chill)  because  the  fields  were  ours, 
And  by  the  brook  our  woods  were  there. 

We  ran  as  if  to  meet  the  moon 
That  slowly  dawned  behind  the  trees, 

The  barren  boughs  without  the  leaves, 
Without  the  birds,  without  the  breeze. 

But  once  within  the  wood,  we  paused 
Like  gnomes  that  hid  us  from  the  moon, 

Ready  to  run  to  hiding  new 
With  laughter  when  she  found  us  soon. 


ROBERT  FROST  115 

Each  laid  on  other  a  staying  hand 

To  listen  ere  we  dared  to  look, 
And  in  the  hush  we  joined  to  make 

We  heard — we  knew  we  heard — the  brook. 

A  note  as  from  a  single  place, 

A  slender  tinkling  fall  that  made 
Now  drops  that  floated  on  the  pool 

Like  pearls,  and  now  a  silver  blade. 

THE  CODE— HEROICS 

There  were  three  in  the  meadow  by  the  brook, 
Gathering  up  windrows,  piling  haycocks  up, 
With  an  eye  always  lifted  toward  the  west, 
Where  an  irregular,  sun-bordered  cloud 
Darkly  advanced  with  a  perpetual  dagger 
Flickering  across  its  bosom.    Suddenly 
One  helper,  thrusting  pitchfork  in  the  ground, 
Marched  himself  off  the  field  and  home.    One  stayed. 
The  town-bred  farmer  failed  to  understand. 

What  was  there  wrong? 

Something  you  said  just  now. 
What  did  I  say? 

About  our  taking  pains. 

To  cock  the  hay? — because  it's  going  to  shower? 
I  said  that  nearly  half  an  hour  ago. 
I  said  it  to  myself  as  much  as  you. 

You  didn't  know.    But  James  is  one  big  fool. 
He  thought  you  meant  to  find  fault  with  his  work. 
That's  what  the  average  farmer  would  have  meant. 
James  had  to  take  his  time  to  chew  it  over 
Before  he  acted;  he's  just  got  round  to  act. 

He  is  a  fool  if  that's  the  way  he  takes  me. 


Il6  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Don't  let  it  bother  you.    You've  found  out  something. 

The  hand  that  knows  his  business  won't  be  told 

To  do  work  faster  or  better — those  two  things. 

I'm  as  particular  as  anyone: 

Most  likely  I'd  have  served  you  just  the  same: 

But  I  know  you  don't  understand  our  ways. 

You  were  just  talking  what  was  in  your  mind, 

What  was  in  all  our  minds,  and  you  weren't  hinting. 

Tell  you  a  story  of  what  happened  once. 

I  was  up  here  in  Salem,  at  a  man's 

Named  Sanders,  with  a  gang  of  four  or  five, 

Doing  the  haying.    No  one  liked  the  boss. 

He  was  one  of  the  kind  sports  call  a  spider, 

All  wiry  arms  and  legs  that  spread  out  wavy 

From  a  humped  body  nigh  as  big  as  a  biscuit. 

But  work! — that  man  could  work,  especially 

If  by  so  doing  he  could  get  more  work 

Out  of  his  hired  help.    I'm  not  denying 

He  was  hard  on  himself:  I  couldn't  find 

That  he  kept  any  hours — not  for  himself. 

Day-light  and  lantern-light  were  one  to  him: 

I've  heard  him  pounding  in  the  barn  all  night. 

But  what  he  liked  was  someone  to  encourage. 

Them  that  he  couldn't  lead  he'd  get  behind 

And  drive,  the  way  you  can,  you  know,  in  mowing — 

Keep  at  their  heels  and  threaten  to  mow  their  legs  off. 

I'd  seen  about  enough  of  his  bulling  tricks — 

We  call  that  bulling.    I'd  been  watching  him. 

So  when  he  paired  off  with  me  in  the  hayfield 

To  load  the  load,  thinks  I,  look  out  for  trouble! 

I  built  the  load  and  topped  it  off;  old  Sanders 

Combed  it  down  with  the  rake  and  said,  "O.  K." 

Everything  went  right  till  we  reached  the  barn 

With  a  big  take  to  empty  in  a  bay. 

You  understand  that  meant  the  easy  job 

For  the  man  up  on  top  of  throwing  down 


ROBERT  FROST  117 

The  hay  and  rolling  it  off  wholesale, 

Where,  on  a  mow,  it  would  have  been  slow  lifting. 

You  wouldn't  think  a  fellow'd  need  much  urging 

Under  those  circumstances,  would  you  now? 

But  the  old  fool  seizes  his  fork  in  both  hands, 

And  looking  up  bewhiskered  out  of  the  pit, 

Shouts  like  an  army  captain,  "Let  her  come!" 

Thinks  I,  d'ye  mean  it?    "What  was  that  you  said?" 

I  asked  out  loud  so's  there'd  be  no  mistake. 

"Did  you  say,  let  her  come?"    "Yes,  let  her  come." 

He  said  it  over,  but  he  said  it  softer. 

Never  you  say  a  thing  like  that  to  a  man, 

Not  if  he  values  what  he  is.    God,  I'd  as  soon 

Murdered  him  as  left  out  his  middle  name. 

I'd  built  the  load  and  knew  just  where  to  find  it. 

Two  or  three  forkfuls  I  picked  lightly  round  for 

Like  meditating,  and  then  I  just  dug  in 

And  dumped  the  rackful  on  him  in  ten  lots. 

I  looked  over  the  side  once  in  the  dust 

And  caught  sight  of  him  treading-water-like, 

Keeping  his  head  above.    "Damn  ye,"  I  says, 

"That  gets  ye!"    He  squeaked  like  a  squeezed  rat. 

That  was  the  last  I  saw  or  heard  of  him. 

I  cleaned  the  rack  and  drove  out  to  cool  off. 

As  I  sat  mopping  the  hayseed  from  my  neck, 

And  sort  of  waiting  to  be  asked  about  it, 

One  of  the  boys  sings  out,  "Where's  the  old  man?" 

"I  left  him  in  the  barn,  under  the  hay. 

If  you  want  him  you  can  go  and  dig  him  out." 

They  realized  from  the  way  I  swobbed  my  neck 

More  than  was  needed,  something  must  be  up. 

They  headed  for  the  barn — I  stayed  where  I  was. 

They  told  me  afterward :  First  they  forked  hay, 

A  lot  of  it,  out  into  the  barn  floor. 

Nothing!    They  listened  for  him.    Not  a  rustle! 


Il8  THE  NEW  POETRY 

I  guess  they  thought  I'd  spiked  him  in  the  temple 
Before  I  buried  him,  else  I  couldn't  have  managed. 
They  excavated  more.    "  Go  keep  his  wife 
Out  of  the  barn." 

Some  one  looked  in  a  window; 
And  curse  me,  if  he  wasn't  in  the  kitchen, 
Slumped  way  down  in  a  chair,  with  both  his  feet 
Stuck  in  the  oven,  the  hottest  day  that  summer. 
He  looked  so  mad  in  back,  and  so  disgusted 
There  was  no  one  that  dared  to  stir  him  up 
Or  let  him  know  that  he  was  being  looked  at. 
Apparently  I  hadn't  buried  him 
(I  may  have  knocked  him  down),  but  just  my  trying 
To  bury  him  had  hurt  his  dignity. 
He  had  gone  to  the  house  so's  not  to  face  me. 
He  kept  away  from  us  all  afternoon. 
We  tended  to  his  hay.    We  saw  him  out 
After  a  while  picking  peas  in  the  garden: 
He  couldn't  keep  away  from  doing  something. 

Weren't  you  relieved  to  find  he  wasn't  dead? 

No! — and  yet  I  can't  say:  it's  hard  to  tell. 
I  went  about  to  kill  him  fair  enough. 

You  took  an  awkward  way.    Did  he  discharge  you? 
Discharge  me?    No!    He  knew  I  did  just  right. 


HAMLIN  GARLAND  119 


Hamlin  Garland 

TO  A  CAPTIVE  CRANE 

Ho,  brother!    Art  thou  prisoned  too? 

Is  tby  heart  hot  with  restless  pain? 
I  heard  the  call  thy  bugle  blew 

Here  by  the  bleak  and  chilling  main 
(Whilst  round  me  shaven  parks  are  spread 

And  cindered  drives  wind  on  and  on) ; 
And  at  thy  cry,  thy  lifted  head, 

My  gladdened  heart  was  westward  drawn. 

O  splendid  bird!  your  trumpet  brings 
To  my  lone  heart  the  prairie  springs. 

THE  MOUNTAINS  ARE  A  LONELY  FOLK 

The  mountains  they  are  silent  folk 

They  stand  afar — alone, 
And  the  clouds  that  kiss  their  brows  at  night 

Hear  neither  sigh  nor  groan. 
Each  bears  him  in  his  ordered  place 

As  soldiers  do,  and  bold  and  high 
They  fold  their  forests  round  their  feet 

And  bolster  up  the  sky. 

MAGIC 

Within  my  hand  I  hold 

A  piece  of  lichen-spotted  stone — 

Each  fleck  red-gold — 

And  with  closed  eyes  I  hear  the  moan 

Of  solemn  winds  round  naked  crags 

Of  Colorado's  mountains.    The  snow 


120  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Lies  deep  about  me.    Gray  and  old 

Hags  of  cedars,  gaunt  and  bare, 

With  streaming,  tangled  hair, 

Snarl  endlessly.    White-winged  and  proud, 

With  stately  step  and  queenly  air, 

A  glittering,  cool  and  silent  cloud 

Upon  me  sails. 

The  wind  wails, 

And  from  the  canon  stern  and  steep 
I  hear  the  furious  waters  leap. 


Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

COLOR 

A  blue-black  Nubian  plucking  oranges 

At  Jaffa  by  a  sea  of  malachite, 

In  red  tarboosh,  green  sash,  and  flowing  white 

Burnous — among  the  shadowy  memories 

That  haunt  me  yet  by  these  bleak  northern  seas 

He  lives  for  ever  in  my  eyes'  delight, 

Bizarre,  superb  in  young  immortal  might — 

A  god  of  old  barbaric  mysteries. 

Maybe  he  lived  a  life  of  lies  and  lust, 

Maybe  his  bones  are  now  but  scattered  dust; 

Yet,  for  a  moment  he  was  life  supreme 

Exultant  and  unchallenged :  and  my  rhyme 

Would  set  hun  safely  out  of  reach  of  tune 

In  that  old  heaven  where  things  are  what  they  seem. 


WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON  121 


OBLIVION 

Near  the  great  pyramid,  unshadowed,  white, 
With  apex  piercing  the  white  noon-day  blaze. 
Swathed  in  white  robes  beneath  the  blinding  rays 
Lie  sleeping  Bedouins  drenched  in  white-hot  light. 
About  them,  searing  to  the  tingling  sight, 
Swims  the  white  dazzle  of  the  desert  ways 
Where  the  sense  shudders,  witless  and  adaze, 
In  a  white  void  with  neither  depth  nor  height. 

Within  the  black  core  of  the  pyramid, 
Beneath  the  weight  of  sunless  centuries, 
Lapt  in  dead  night  King  Cheops  lies  asleep: 
Yet  in  the  darkness  of  his  chamber  hid 
He  knows  no  black  oblivion  more  deep 
Than  that  blind  white  oblivion  of  noon  skies. 


TENANTS 

Suddenly,  out  of  dark  and  leafy  ways, 
We  came  upon  the  little  house  asleep 
In  cold  blind  stillness,  shadowless  and  deep, 
In  the  white  magic  of  the  full  moon-blaze: 
Strangers  without  the  gate,  we  stood  agaze, 
Fearful  to  break  that  quiet,  and  to  creep 
Into  the  home  that  had  been  ours  to  keep 
Through  a  long  year  of  happy  nights  and  days. 

So  unfamiliar  in  the  white  moon-gleam, 
So  old  and  ghostly  like  a  house  of  dream 
It  stood,  that  over  us  there  stole  the  dread 
That  even  as  we  watched  it,  side  by  side, 
The  ghosts  of  lovers,  who  had  lived  and  died 
Within  its  walls,  were  sleeping  hi  our  bed. 


122  THE  NEW  POETRY 


GOLD 

All  day  the  mallet  thudded  far  below 
My  garret,  in  an  old  ramshackle  shed 
Where  ceaselessly,  with  stiffly  nodding  head 
And  rigid  motions  ever  to  and  fro 
A  figure  like  a  puppet  in  a  show 
Before  the  window  moved  till  day  was  dead, 
Beating  out  gold  to  earn  his  daily  bread, 
Beating  out  thin  fine  gold-leaf  blow  on  blow. 

And  I  within  my  garret  all  day  long- 
Unto  that  ceaseless  thudding  tuned  my  song, 
Beating  out  golden  words  in  tune  and  time 
To  that  dull  thudding,  rhyme  on  golden  rhyme. 
But  in  my  dreams  all  night,  in  that  dark  shed; 
With  aching  arms  I  beat  fine  gold  for  bread. 


ON  HAMPSTEAD  HEATH 

Against  the  green  flame  of  the  hawthorn-tree, 
His  scarlet  tunic  burns; 

And  livelier  than  the  green  sap's  mantling  glee 
The  spring  fire  tingles  through  him  headily 
As  quivering  he  turns 

And  stammers  out  the  old  amazing  tale 

Of  youth  and  April  weather; 

While  she,  with  half-breathed  jests  that,  sobbing,  fail, 

Sits,  tight-lipped,  quaking,  eager-eyed  and  pale 

Beneath  her  purple  feather. 


WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON  123 


BATTLE 

THE  GOING 

He's  gone. 

I  do  not  understand. 

I  only  know 

That  as  he  turned  to  go 

And  waved  his  hand, 

In  his  young  eyes  a  sudden  glory  shone: 

And  I  was  dazzled  by  a  sunset  glow, 

And  he  was  gone. 


THE  JOKE 

He'd  even  have  his  joke 

While  we  were  sitting  tight, 

And  so  he  needs  must  poke 

His  silly  head  in  sight 

To  whisper  some  new  jest 

Chortling.    But  as  he  spoke 

A  rifle  cracked  .  .  . 

And  now  God  knows  when  I  shall  hear  the  rest! 


IN  THE  AMBULANCE 

"Two  rows  of  cabbages, 
Two  of  curly-greens, 
Two  rows  of  early  peas, 
Two  of  kidney-beans." 

That's  what  he  is  muttering, 
Making  such  a  song, 
Keeping  other  chaps  awake, 
The  whole  night  long. 


124  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Both  his  legs  are  shot  away, 
And  his  head  is  light; 
So  he  keeps  on  muttering 
All  the  blessed  night: 

"Two  rows  of  cabbages, 
Two  of  curly-greens, 
Two  rows  of  early  peas, 
Two  of  kidney-beans." 

HIT 

Out  of  the  sparkling  sea 

I  drew  my  tingling  body  clear,  and  lay 

On  a  low  ledge  the  livelong  summer  day, 

Basking,  and  watching  lazily 

White  sails  in  Falmouth  Bay. 

My  body  seemed  to  burn 

Salt  in  the  sun  that  drenched  it  through  and  through, 

Till  every  particle  glowed  clean  and  new 

And  slowly  seemed  to  turn 

To  lucent  amber  in  a  world  of  blue  .  .  . 

I  felt  a  sudden  wrench — 

A  trickle  of  warm  blood — 

And  found  that  I  was  sprawling  in  the  mud 

Among  the  dead  men  in  the  trench. 

THE  HOUSEWIFE 

She  must  go  back,  she  said, 

Because  she'd  not  had  time  to  make  the  bed. 

We'd  hurried  her  away 

So  roughly  .  .  .  and  for  all  that  we  could  say, 

She  broke  from  us,  and  passed 

Into  the  night,  shells  falling  thick  and  fast. 


WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON  125 

HILL-BORN 

I  sometimes  wonder  if  it's  really  true 

I  ever  knew 

Another  life 

Than  this  unending  strife 

With  unseen  enemies  in  lowland  mud; 

And  wonder  if  my  blood 

Thrilled  ever  to  the  tune 

Of  clean  winds  blowing  through  an  April  noon 

Mile  after  sunny  mile 

On  the  green  ridges  of  the  Windy  Gile. 

THE  FEAR 

I  do  not  fear  to  die 
'Neath  the  open  sky, 
To  meet  death  in  the  fight 
Face  to  face,  upright. 

But  when  at  last  we  creep 
Into  a  hole  to  sleep, 
I  tremble,  cold  with  dread, 
Lest  I  wake  up  dead. 

BACK 

They  ask  me  where  I've  been, 
And  what  I've  done  and  seen. 
But  what  can  I  reply 
Who  know  it  wasn't  I, 
But  someone,  just  like  me, 
Who  went  across  the  sea 
And  with  my  head  and  hands 
Slew  men  in  foreign  lands  .  .  . 
Though  I  must  bear  the  blame 
Because  he  bore  my  name. 


126  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Richard  Butler  Glaenzer 

STAR-MAGIC 

Though  your  beauty  be  a  flower 
Of  unimagined  loveliness, 
It  cannot  lure  me  tonight; 
For  I  am  all  spirit. 

As  in  the  billowy  oleander, 

Full-bloomed, 

Each  blossom  is  all  but  lost 

In  the  next — 

One  flame  in  a  glow 

Of  green-veined  rhodonite; 

So  is  heaven  a  crystal  magnificence 

Of  stars 

Powdered  lightly  with  blue. 

For  this  one  night 
My  spirit  has  turned  honey-moth 
And  has  made  of  the  stars 
Its  flowers. 

So  all  uncountable  are  the  stars 
That  heaven  shimmers  as  a  web, 
Bursting  with  light 
From  beyond, 
A  light  exquisite, 
Immeasurable! 

For  this  one  night 

My  spirit  has  dared,  and  been  caught 

In  the  web  of  the  stars. 


DOUGLAS  GOLDRING  127 

Though  your  beauty  were  a  net 
Of  unimagined  power, 
It  could  not  hold  me  tonight; 
For  I  am  all  spirit. 


Douglas  Goldring 

VOYAGES 

I 

To  come  so  soon  to  this  imagined  dark — 
More  velvet-deep  than  any  midnight  park! 
Palaces  hem  me  in,  with  blind  black  walls; 
The  water  is  hushed  for  a  voice  that  never  calls. 
My  gondolier  sways  silently  over  his  oar. 

n 

At  St.  Blaise,  d  la  Zuecca!   Oh,  my  dear, 
Laugh  your  gentle  laughter!    This  old  land, 
From  Provence  to  Paris — never  fear — 
All  the  heart  can  feel  will  understand. 

A  small  town,  a  white  town, 
A  town  for  you  and  me — 
With  a  Caft  Glacier  in  the  square, 
And  schooners  at  the  quay; 
And  the  terrasse  of  a  small  hotel 
That  looks  upon  the  sea! 
There  gay  sounds  and  sweet  sounds 
And  sounds  of  peace  come  through: 
The  cook  sings  in  the  kitchen, 
The  pink-foot  ring-doves  coo, 
And  Julien  brings  the  Pernods 
That  are  bad  for  me  and  you. 


128  THE  NEW  POETRY 

At  St.  Blaise,  a  la  Zueccal   Oh,  my  dear, 
Laugh  your  gentle  laughter!    This  old  land, 
From  Provence  to  Paris — never  fear — 
All  the  heart  can  feel  will  understand. 

m 

Waves  lap  the  beach,  pines  stretch  to  meet  the  sea; 
A  pale  light  on  the  horizon  lingers  and  shines, 
That  might  shine  round  the  Graal:  and  we 
Stand  very  silent,  underneath  the  pines. 

0  swift  expresses  for  the  spirit's  flight! 
Sometimes  the  moon  is  like  a  maid  I  know, 
Looking  roguishly  back,  and  flying  forward — so 

1  follow,  flashing  after.    Blessed  night! 

IV 

Do  you  remember,  have  you  been  these  ways, 

Dreaming  or  waking,  after  sunny  days; 

Sailed,  in  a  moment,  to  imagined  lands — 

With  one  to  love  you,  holding  both  your  hands — 

To  old  hot  countries  where  the  warm  grape  clings, 

And  an  old,  musical  language  strikes  the  ear 

Like  a  caress,  most  exquisite  to  hear — 

Your  soul  the  voyager  and  your  heart  her  wings? 


Hermann  Hagedorn 

EARLY  MORNING  AT  BARGIS 

Clear  air  and  grassy  lea, 
Stream-song  and  cattle-bell — 

Dear  man,  what  fools  are  we 
In  prison-walls  to  dwell! 


HERMANN  HAGEDORN  129 

To  live  our  days  apart 

From  green  things  and  wide  skies, 
And  let  the  wistful  heart 

Be  cut  and  crushed  with  lies! 

Bright  peaks! — And  suddenly 

Light  floods  the  placid  dell, 
The  grass-tops  brush  my  knee: 
A  good  crop  it  will  be, 

So  all  is  well! 
O  man,  what  fools  are  we 

In  prison- walls  to  dwell! 

DOORS 

Like  a  young  child  who  to  his  mother's  door 

Runs  eager  for  the  welcoming  embrace, 

And  finds  the  door  shut,  and  with  troubled  face 
Calls  and  through  sobbing  calls,  and  o'er  and  o'er 
Calling,  storms  at  the  panel — so  before 

A  door  that  will  not  open,  sick  and  numb, 

I  listen  for  a  word  that  will  not  come, 
And  know,  at  last,  I  may  not  enter  more. 

Silence!    And  through  the  silence  and  the  dark 
By  that  closed  door,  the  distant  sob  of  tears 

Beats  on  my  spirit,  as  on  fairy  shores 
The  spectral  sea;  and  through  the  sobbing — hark! — 
Down  the  fair-chambered  corridor  of  years, 
The  quiet  shutting,  one  by  one,  of  doors. 

DEPARTURE 

My  true  love  from  her  pillow  rose 

And  wandered  down  the  summer  lane. 
She  left  her  house  to  the  wind's  carouse, 

And  her  chamber  wide  to  the  rain. 


130  THE  NEW  POETRY 

She  did  not  stop  to  don  her  coat, 
She  did  not  stop  to  smooth  her  bed — 

But  out  she  went  in  glad  content 
There  where  the  bright  path  led. 

She  did  not  feel  the  beating  storm, 
But  fled  like  a  sunbeam,  white  and  frail, 

To  the  sea,  to  the  air,  somewhere,  somewhere — 
I  have  not  found  her  trail. 


BROADWAY 

How  like  the  stars  are  these  white,  nameless  faces — 
These  far  innumerable  burning  coals! 

This  pale  procession  out  of  stellar  spaces, 
This  Milky  Way  of  souls! 

Each  in  its  own  bright  nebulae  enfurled, 

Each  face,  dear  God,  a  world! 

I  fling  my  gaze  out  through  the  silent  night: 
In  those  far  stars,  what  gardens,  what  high  halls, 

Has  mortal  yearning  built  for  its  delight, 
What  chasms  and  what  walls? 

What  quiet  mansions  where  a  soul  may  dwell? 

What  heaven  and  what  hell? 


Thomas  Hardy 

SHE  HEARS  THE  STORM 

There  was  a  time  in  former  years — 

While  my  roof-tree  was  his — 
When  I  should  have  been  distressed  by  fears 
At  such  a  night  as  this. 


THOMAS  HARDY  131 

I  should  have  murmured  anxiously, 

"The  pricking  rain  strikes  cold; 
His  road  is  bare  of  hedge  or  tree, 

And  he  is  getting  old." 

But  now  the  fitful  chimney-roar, 

The  drone  of  Thorncombe  trees, 
The  Froom  in  flood  upon  the  moor, 

The  mud  of  Mellstock  Leaze, 

The  candle  slanting  sooty  wick'd, 

The  thuds  upon  the  thatch, 
The  eaves-drops  on  the  window  flicked, 

The  clacking  garden-hatch, 

And  what  they  mean  to  wayfarers, 

I  scarcely  heed  or  mind; 
He  has  won  that  storm-tight  roof  of  hers 

Which  Earth  grants  all  her  kind. 

THE  VOICE 

Woman  much  missed,  how  you  call  to  me,  call  to  me, 
Saying  that  now  you  are  not  as  you  were 
When  you  had  changed  from  the  one  who  was  all  to  me, 
But  as  at  first,  when  our  day  was  fair. 

Can  it  be  you  that  I  hear?    Let  me  view  you,  then, 
Standing  as  when  I  drew  near  to  the  town 
Where  you  would  wait  for  me:  yes,  as  I  knew  you  then, 
Even  to  the  original  air-blue  gown! 

Or  is  it  only  the  breeze,  in  its  listlessness 
Travelling  across  the  wet  mead  to  me  here, 
You  being  ever  consigned  to  existlessness, 
Heard  no  more  again  far  or  near? 


132  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Thus  I;  faltering  forward, 

Leaves  around  me  falling, 

Wind  oozing  thin  through  the  thorn  from  norward 

And  the  woman  calling. 

IN  THE  MOONLIGHT 

"O  lonely  workman,  standing  there 
In  a  dream,  why  do  you  stare  and  stare 
At  her  grave,  as  no  other  grave  there  were? 

"If  your  great  gaunt  eyes  so  importune 

Her  soul  by  the  shine  of  this  corpse-cold  moon, 

Maybe  you'll  raise  her  phantom  soon!" 

"Why,  fool,  it  is  what  I  would  rather  see 
Than  all  the  living  folk  there  be; 
But  alas,  there  is  no  such  joy  for  me!" 

"Ah — she  was  one  you  loved,  no  doubt, 
Through  good  and  evil,  through  rain  and  drought, 
And  when  she  passed,  all  your  sun  went  out?" 

"Nay:  she  was  the  woman  I  did  not  love, 
Whom  all  the  others  were  ranked  above, 
Whom  during  her  life  I  thought  nothing  of." 

THE  MAN  HE  KILLED 

"Had  he  and  I  but  met 
By  some  old  ancient  inn, 
We  should  have  sat  us  down  to  wet 
Right  many  a  nipperkin! 

"But  ranged  as  infantry, 
And  staring  face  to  face, 
I  shot  at  him  as  he  at  me, 

And  killed  him  in  his  place. 


RALPH  HODGSON  133 

"I  shot  him  dead  because — 
Because  he  was  my  foe, 
Just  so:  my  foe  of  course  he  was; 
That's  clear  enough;  although 

"  He  thought  he'd  'list,  perhaps, 
Off-hand  like — just  as  I — 
Was  out  of  work — had  sold  his  traps — 
No  other  reason  why. 

"  Yes;  quaint  and  curious  war  is! 
You  shoot  a  fellow  down 
You'd  treat  if  met  where  any  bar  is, 
Or  help  to  half-a-crown." 


Ralph  Hodgson 

THE  MYSTERY 

He  came  and  took  me  by  the  hand 

Up  to  a  red  rose  tree, 
He  kept  His  meaning  to  Himself 

But  gave  a  rose  to  me. 

I  did  not  pray  Him  to  lay  bare 

The  mystery  to  me; 
Enough  the  rose  was  Heaven  to  smell, 

And  His  own  face  to  see. 

THREE  POEMS 


Babylon — where  I  go  dreaming 
When  I  weary  of  to-day, 
Weary  of  a  world  grown  gray. 


134  THE  NEW  POETRY 

n 

God  loves  an  idle  rainbow, 
No  less  than  laboring  seas. 

m 

Reason  has  moons,  but  moons  not  hers 

Lie  mirrored  on  her  sea, 
Confounding  her  astronomers, 

But,  oh,  delighting  me! 

STUPIDITY  STREET 

I  saw  with  open  eyes 
Singing  birds  sweet 

Sold  in  the  shops 

For  the  people  to  eat, 

Sold  in  the  shops  of 
Stupidity  Street. 

I  saw  in  vision 
The  worm  in  the  wheat, 

And  in  the  shops  nothing 
For  people  to  eat; 

Nothing  for  sale  in 
Stupidity  Street. 


Horace  Holley 

CREATIVE 

Renew  the  vision  of  delight 
By  vigil,  praise  and  prayer, 

Till  every  sinew  leaps  in  might 
And  every  sense  is  fair. 


HELEN  HOYT  135 


TWIILGHT  AT  VERSAILLES 

Unfold  for  men,  O  God,  love's  true,  creative  day, 
To  flower  our  barren  souls  by  mellow  sun  and  noon: 

The  glory  of  old  thought  is  still,  and  cold,  and  gray, 
Like  gardens  unrenewed  beneath  the  sterile  moon. 

LOVERS 

Whatever  our  joy  compelled,  men's  praise  and  blame  fall  hollow, 
A  voice  upon  the  winds  that  drown  it  as  they  blow: 

So  fair  a  vision  led,  our  thought  was  all  to  follow; 
So  strong  a  passion  urged,  our  will  was  all  to  go. 


Helen  Hoyt 

ELLIS  PARK 

Little  park  that  I  pass  through, 

I  carry  off  a  piece  of  you 

Every  morning  hurrying  down 

To  my  work-day  in  the  town; 

Carry  you  for  country  there 

To  make  the  city  ways  more  fair. 

I  take  your  trees, 

And  your  breeze, 

Your  greenness, 

Your  cleanness, 

Some  of  your  shade,  some  of  your  sky, 

Some  of  your  calm  as  I  go  by; 

Your  flowers  to  trim 

The  pavements  grim; 

Your  space  for  room  in  the  jostled  street 

And  grass  for  carpet  to  my  feet. 


136  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Your  fountains  take  and  sweet  bird  calls 

To  sing  me  from  my  office  walls. 

All  that  I  can  see 

I  carry  off  with  me. 

But  you  never  miss  my  theft, 

So  much  treasure  you  have  left. 

As  I  find  you,  fresh  at  morning, 

So  I  find  you,  home  returning — 

Nothing  lacking  from  your  grace. 

All  your  riches  wait  in  place 

For  me  to  borrow 

On  the  morrow. 

Do  you  hear  this  praise  of  you, 
Little  park  that  I  pass  through? 

THE  NEW-BORN 

I  have  heard  them  in  the  night — 

The  cry  of  their  fear, 

Because  there  is  no  light, 

Because  they  do  not  hear 

Familiar  sounds  and  feel  the  familiar  arm, 

And  they  awake  alone. 

Yet  they  have  never  known 

Danger  or  harm. 

What  is  their  dread? — 

This  dark  about  their  bed? 

But  they  are  so  lately  come 

Out  of  the  dark  womb 

Where  they  were  safely  kept. 

That  blackness  was  good; 

And  the  silence  of  that  solitude 

Wherein  they  slept 

Was  kind. 

Where  did  they  find 


HELEN  HOYT  137 


Knowledge  of  death? 
Caution  of  darkness  and  cold? 
These— of  the  little,  new  breath- 
Have  they  a  prudence  so  old? 


RAIN  AT  NIGHT 

Are  you  awake?    Do  you  hear  the  rain? 

How  rushingly  it  strikes  upon  the  ground, 

And  on  the  roof,  and  the  wet  window-pane! 

Sometimes  I  think  it  is  a  comfortable  sound, 

Making  us  feel  how  safe  and  snug  we  are: 

Closing  us  off  in  this  dark,  away  from  the  dark  outside. 

The  rest  of  the  world  seems  dim  tonight,  mysterious  and  far. 

Oh,  there  is  no  world  left!   Only  darkness,  darkness  stretching  wide 

And  full  of  the  blind  rain's  immeasurable  fall! 

How  nothing  must  we  seem  unto  this  ancient  thing! 

How  nothing  unto  the  earth — and  we  so  small! 

Oh,  wake,  wake! — do  you  not  feel  my  hands  cling? 

One  day  it  will  be  raining  as  it  rams  tonight;  the  same  wind  blow — 

Raining  and  blowing  on  this  house  wherein  we  lie:  but  you  and  I — 

We  shall  not  hear,  we  shall  not  ever  know. 

O  love,  I  had  forgot  that  we  must  die. 


THE  LOVER  SINGS  OF  A  GARDEN 

Oh,  beautiful  are  the  flowers  of  your  garden, 

The  flowers  of  your  garden  are  fair: 
Blue  flowers  of  your  eyes 

And  dusk  flower  of  your  hair; 
Dew  flower  of  your  mouth 

And  peony-budded  breasts, 
And  the  flower  of  the  curve  of  your  hand 

Where  my  hand  rests. 


138  THE  NEW  POETRY 


SINCE  I  HAVE  FELT  THE  SENSE  OF  DEATH 

Since  I  have  felt  the  sense  of  death, 
Since  I  have  borne  its  dread,  its  fear — 
Oh,  how  my  life  has  grown  more  dear 

Since  I  have  felt  the  sense  of  death! 

Sorrows  are  good,  and  cares  are  small, 

Since  I  have  known  the  loss  of  all. 

Since  I  have  felt  the  sense  of  death, 
And  death  forever  at  my  side — 
Oh,  how  the  world  has  opened  wide 

Since  I  have  felt  the  sense  of  death! 

My  hours  are  jewels  that  I  spend, 

For  I  have  seen  the  hours  end. 

Since  I  have  felt  the  sense  of  death, 

Since  I  have  looked  on  that  black  night — 
My  inmost  brain  is  fierce  with  light 

Since  I  have  felt  the  sense  of  death. 

O  dark,  that  made  my  eyes  to  see! 

O  death,  that  gave  my  life  to  me! 


Ford  Madox  Hueffer 

ANTWERP 

I 

Gloom! 

An  October  like  November; 

August  a  hundred  thousand  hours, 

And  all  September, 

A  hundred  thousand,  dragging  sunlit  days, 


FORD  MADOX  HUEFFER  139 

And  half  October  like  a  thousand  years  .  .  . 

And  doom! 

That  then  was  Antwerp  .  .  . 

In  the  name  of  God, 
How  could  they  do  it? 
Those  souls  that  usually  dived 
Into  the  dirty  caverns  of  mines; 
Who  usually  hived 

In  whitened  hovels;  under  ragged  poplars; 
Who  dragged  muddy  shovels,  over  the  grassy  mud, 
Lumbering  to  work  over  the  greasy  sods  .  .  . 
Those  men  there,  with  the  appearance  of  clods 
Were  the  bravest  men  that  a  usually  listless  priest  of  God 
Ever  shrived  .  .  . 

And  it  is  not  for  us  to  make  them  an  anthem. 
If  we  found  words  there  would  come  no  wind  that  would  fan  them 
To  a  tune  that  the  trumpets  might  blow  it, 
Shrill  through  the  heaven  that's  ours  or  yet  Allah's, 
Or  the  wide  halls  of  any  Valhallas. 
We  can  make  no  such  anthem.    So  that  all  that  is  ours 
For  inditing  in  sonnets,  pantoums,  elegiacs,  or  lays 
Is  this: 
"In  the  name  of  God,  how  could  they  do  it?" 


For  there  is  no  new  thing  under  the  sun, 

Only  this  uncomely  man  with  a  smoking  gun 

In  the  gloom.  .  .  . 

What  the  devil  will  he  gain  by  it? 

Digging  a  hole  in  the  mud  and  standing  all  day  in  the  rain  by  it 

Waiting  his  doom; 

The  sharp  blow,  the  swift  outpouring  of  the  blood 

Till  the  trench  of  gray  mud 

Is  turned  to  a  brown  purple  drain  by  it. 

Well,  there  have  been  scars 


140  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Won  in  many  wars, 

Punic, 

Lacedaemonian,  wars  of  Napoleon,  wars  for  faith,  wars  for  honor, 

for  love,  for  possession, 
But  this  Belgian  man  in  his  ugly  tunic, 
His  ugly  round  cap,  shooting  on,  in  a  sort  of  obsession, 
Overspreading  his  miserable  land, 
Standing  with  his  wet  gun  in  his  hand.  .  .  . 
Doom! 

He  finds  that  in  a  sudden  scrimmage, 
And  lies,  an  unsightly  lump  on  the  sodden  grass  .  .  . 
An  image  that  shall  take  long  to  pass! 

m 

For  the  white-limbed  heroes  of  Hellas  ride  by  upon  their  horses 

Forever  through  our  brains. 

The  heroes  of  Cressy  ride  by  upon  their  stallions; 

And  battalions  and  battalions  and  battalions — 

The  Old  Guard,  the  Young  Guard,  the  men  of  Minden  and  of 

Waterloo, 

Pass,  for  ever  staunch, 
Stand,  for  ever  true; 

And  the  small  man  with  the  large  paunch, 
And  the  gray  coat,  and  the  large  hat,  and  the  hands  behind  the 

back, 

Watches  them  pass 
In  our  minds  for  ever.  .  .  . 
But  that  clutter  of  sodden  corses 
On  the  sodden  Belgian  grass — 
That  is  a  strange  new  beauty. 

IV 

With  no  especial  legends  of  marchings  or  triumphs  or  duty, 
Assuredly  that  is  the  way  of  it, 
The  way  of  beauty.  .  .  . 


FORD  MADOX  HUEFFER  141 

And  that  is  the  highest  word  you  can  find  to  say  of  it. 

For  you  cannot  praise  it  with  words 

Compounded  of  lyres  and  swords, 

But  the  thought  of  the  gloom  and  the  rain 

And  the  ugly  coated  figure,  standing  beside  a  drain, 

Shall  eat  itself  into  your  brain: 

And  you  will  say  of  all  heroes,  "They  fought  like  the  Belgians!" 

And  you  will  say,  "He  wrought  like  a  Belgian  his  fate  out  of 

gloom." 

And  you  will  say,  "He  bought  like  a  Belgian 
His  doom." 

And  that  shall  be  an  honorable  name; 
"Belgian"  shall  be  an  honorable  word; 
As  honorable  as  the  fame  of  the  sword, 
As  honorable  as  the  mention  of  the  many-chorded  lyre, 
And  his  old  coat  shall  seem  as  beautiful  as  the  fabrics  woven  in 

Tyre. 


And  what  in  the  world  did  they  bear  it  for? 

I  don't  know. 

And  what  in  the  world  did  they  dare  it  for? 

Perhaps  that  is  not  for  the  likes  of  me  to  understand. 

They  could  very  well  have  watched  a  hundred  legions  go 

Over  their  fields  and  between  their  cities 

Down  into  more  southerly  regions. 

They  could  very  well  have  let  the  legions  pass  through  their  woods, 

And  have  kept  their  lives  and  their  wives  and  their  children  and 

cattle  and  goods. 
I  don't  understand. 
Was  it  just  love  of  their  land? 
Oh,  poor  dears! 
Can  any  man  so  love  his  land? 
Give  them  a  thousand  thousand  pities 
And  rivers  and  rivers  of  tears 
To  wash  off  the  blood  from  the  cities  of  Flanders. 


142  THE  NEW  POETRY 

VI 

This  is  Charing  Cross; 

It  is  midnight; 

There  is  a  great  crowd 

And  no  light — 

A  great  crowd,  all  black,  that  hardly  whispers  aloud. 

Surely,  that  is  a  dead  woman — a  dead  mother! 

She  has  a  dead  face; 

She  is  dressed  all  in  black; 

She  wanders  to  the  book-stall  and  back, 

At  the  back  of  the  crowd; 

And  back  again  and  again  back, 

She  sways  and  wanders. 

This  is  Charing  Cross; 

It  is  one  o'clock. 

There  is  still  a  great  cloud,  and  very  little  light; 

Immense  shafts  of  shadows  over  the  black  crowd 

That  hardly  whispers  aloud.  .  .  . 

And  now!  .  .  .  That  is  another  dead  mother, 

And  there  is  another  and  another  and  another.  .  .  . 

And  little  children,  all  in  black, 

All  with  dead  faces,  waiting  in  all  the  waiting-places, 

Wandering  from  the  doors  of  the  waiting-room 

In  the  dim  gloom. 

These  are  the  women  of  Flanders: 

They  await  the  lost. 

They  await  the  lost  that  shall  never  leave  the  dock; 

They  await  the  lost  that  shall  never  again  come  by  the  train 

To  the  embraces  of  all  these  women  with  dead  faces; 

They  await  the  lost  who  lie  dead  in  trench  and  barrier  and  fosse, 

In  the  dark  of  the  night. 

This  is  Charing  Cross;  it  is  past  one  of  the  clock; 

There  is  very  little  light. 

There  is  so  much  pain. 


SCHARMEL  IRIS  143 


L'Envoi: 

And  it  was  for  this  that  they  endured  this  gloom; 
This  October  like  November, 
That  August  like  a  hundred  thousand  hours, 
And  that  September, 
A  hundred  thousand  dragging  sunlit  days 
And  half  October  like  a  thousand  years.  .  .  . 
Oh,  poor  dears! 


Scharmel  Iris 

AFTER  THE  MARTYRDOM 

They  threw  a  stone,  you  threw  a  stone, 

I  threw  a  stone  that  day. 
Although  their  sharpness  bruised  his  flesh 

He  had  no  word  to  say. 

But  for  the  moan  he  did  not  make 

To-day  I  make  my  moan; 
And  for  the  stone  I  threw  at  him 

My  heart  must  bear  a  stone. 


LAMENT 

Lady,  your  heart  has  turned  to  dust, 
Your  wail  is  taken  by  the  sea. 

The  wind  is  knocking  at  my  heart, 
And  will  not  let  me  be. 

Your  moaning  smites  me  in  my  dreams, 
And  I  must  sorrow  till  I  die. 

And  I  shall  rove,  and  I  shall  weep, 
Till  in  the  grave  I  lie. 


144  THE  NEW  POETRY 

ITERATION 

My  son  is  dead  and  I  am  going  blind, 
And  in  the  Ishmael-wind  of  grief 
I  tremble  like  a  leaf; 
I  have  no  mind  for  any  word  you  say: 
My  son  is  dead  and  I  am  going  blind. 

EARLY  NIGHTFALL 

The  pale  day  drowses  on  the  western  steep; 
The  toiler  faints  along  the  marge  of  sleep 
Within  the  sunset-press,  incarnadine, 
The  sun,  a  peasant,  tramples  out  his  wine. 

Ah,  scattered  gold  rests  on  the  twilight  streams; 
The  poppy  opes  her  scarlet  purse  of  dreams. 
Night  with  the  sickle-moon  engarners  wheat, 
And  binds  the  sheaves  of  stars  beneath  her  feet. 

Rest,  weary  heart,  and  every  flight-worn  bird! 
The  brooklet  of  the  meadow  lies  unstirred. 
Sleep,  every  soul,  against  a  comrade  breast! 
God  grant  you  peace,  and  guard  you  in  your  rest! 


Orrick  Johns 
SONGS  OF  DELIVERANCE 

I — THE  SONG  OF  YOUTH 

This  is  the  song  of  youth, 

This  is  the  cause  of  myself; 

I  knew  my  father  well  and  he  was  a  fool, 

Therefore  will  I  have  my  own  foot  in  the  path  before  I  take  a  step; 


ORRICK  JOHNS  145 

I  will  go  only  into  new  lands, 

And  I  will  walk  on  no  plank-walks. 

The  horses  of  my  family  are  wind-broken, 

And  the  dogs  are  old, 

And  the  guns  rusty; 

I  will  make  me  a  new  bow  from  an  ash-tree, 

And  cut  up  the  homestead  into  arrows. 

Behold  how  people  stand  around! 

(There  are  always  crowds  of  people  standing  around, 

Whose  legs  have  no  knees) — 

While  the  engineers  put  up  steel  work  .  .  . 

Is  it  something  to  catch  the  sunlight, 

Jewelry  and  gew-gaw? 

I  have  no  time  to  wait  for  them  to  build  bridges  for  me; 

Where  awful  the  gap  seems  stretching  there  is  no  gap, 

Leaping  I  take  it  at  once  from  a  thought  to  a  thought. 

I  can  no  more  walk  in  the  stride  of  other  men 

Than  be  father  of  their  children. 

My  treasure  lured  like  a  bright  star, 

And  I  went  to  it  young  and  desirous. 

Lo,  as  it  stood  there  in  its  great  chests, 

The  wise  men  came  up  with  the  keys, 

Crying,  "Blasphemy,  blasphemy!" 

For  I  had  broken  the  locks.  .  .  . 

And  when  the  procession  went  waving  to  a  funeral, 

They  cried  it  again; 

For  I  stayed  in  my  home  and  spoke  truth  about  the  dead. 

Much  did  I  learn  waiting  in  my  youth; 

At  the  door  of  a  great  man  I  waited  on  one  foot  and  then  on  the 

other. 
The  files  passed  in  and  out  before  me  to  the  antechamber,  for  at 

that  door  I  was  not  favored: 
(O  costly  preferment!) 
Yet  I  watched  them  coming  and  going, 


146  THE  NEW  POETRY 

And  I  learned  the  great  man  by  heart  from  the  stories  on  their 

faces. 
When  presently  the  retainers  arrived,  one  above  the  other  in  a 

row,  saying: 

"The  great  man  is  ready," 
I  had  long  been  a  greater  than  he. 

This  is  the  reason  for  myself: 

When  I  used  to  go  in  the  races,  I  had  but  one  prayer, 

And  I  went  first  before  the  judges,  saying; 

"Give  everyone  a  distance,  such  as  you  consider  best; 

I  will  run  scratch." 

ii — VIRGINS 

I  have  had  one  fear  in  my  life — 

When  I  was  young  I  feared  virgins; 

But  I  do  not  any  more.  .  .  . 

By  contact  with  them  I  learn  that  each  is  a  center, 

And  has  a  period  of  brightness, 

And  stands  epitome  in  that  brief  space 

Of  the  Universe! 

Ah,  the  ephemeral  eternal! 

In  virgins'  eyes  I  would  live  reflected  as  in  a  globe, 

And  know  myself  purer  than  crystal. 

Ill — NO  PREY  AM  I 

No  prey  am  I  of  poor  thoughts. 

I  leave  all  of  my  followers;  I  tire  quickly  of  them; 

I  send  them  away  from  me  when  they  ask  too  much;  for  though 

I  live  alone 
Still  will  I  live,  night  and  day  .  .  . 

There  is  not  anything  in  me  save  mutation  and  laughter; 

My  laughter  is  like  a  sword, 

Like  the  piston-rod  that  defies  oceans  and  grades. 


ORRICK  JOHNS  147 

When  I  labor  it  is  a  song  of  battle  in  the  broad  noon; 
For  behold  the  muscles  of  a  man — 

They  are  piston-rods;  they  are  cranes,  hydraulic  presses,  powder- 
magazines: 

But  though  my  body  be  as  beautiful  as  a  hill  crowned  with  flowers 
I  will  despise  it  and  make  it  obey  me  .  .  . 

Is  the  old  love  dead? 

Then  I  shall  await  the  new, 

To  embrace  it  more  sturdily  and  passionately  than  ever  the  old; 

And  break  it  under  the  white  force  of  my  laughter 

Until  it  lies  passive  in  my  arms. 

There  is  nothing  in  me  but  renewal; 

If  my  friend  bow  his  head  over  me  I  soon  surprise  him  with  shouts 

of  joy: 

For  in  an  instant  I  am  again  what  I  was, 
Only  with  a  few  moments  more  of  the  infusion  of  earth; 
I  tell  him,  the  griever,  to  follow  me  and  he  is  a  griever  no  more; 
He  raises  his  head  and  must  follow. 
Yet  it  is  my  battle,  not  his  battle, 
For  in  me  I  absorb  others  .  .  . 
I  hail  parties  and  partisans  from  afar; 
Not  men  but  parties  are  my  comrades, 
Not  persons  but  nations  are  my  associates. 
I  shake  the  hand  of  nations; 

For  I  am  a  nation  and  a  party,  and  majorities  do  not  elect  me — 
I  elect  myself. 
I  swam  in  the  sea,  and  lo! 

The  continents  assembled  like  islands  off  my  coast. 
My  talk  is  with  Homer  and  Bonaparte,  with  David  and  Garibaldi, 

with  China  and  Pharaoh  and  Texas; 
When  I  laugh  it  is  with  Lucifer  and  Rabelais. 
A  pathfinder  is  my  mistress,  one  hard  to  keep  and  unbridled — 
I  have  no  respect  for  tame  women. 
My  friends  and  I  do  not  meet  every  day, 
For  we  are  centuries  apart,  our  salutations  girdle  the  globe. 


148  THE  NEW  POETRY 

I  have  eaten  locusts  with  Jeremiah; 

I  invite  all  hatreds  and  the  stings  of  little  creatures — 

They  enrich  me,  I  glory  in  my  parasites. 

No  man  shall  ever  read  me, 

For  I  bring  about  in  a  gesture  what  they  cannot  fathom  in  a  life; 

Yet  I  tell  Bob  and  Harry  and  Bill— 

It  costs  me  nothing  to  be  kind; 

If  I  am  a  generous  adversary,  be  not  deceived,  neither  be  devoted — 

It  is  because  I  despise  you. 

Yet  if  any  man  claim  to  be  my  peer  I  shall  meet  him, 

For  that  man  has  an  insolence  that  I  like; 

I  am  beholden  to  him. 

I  know  the  lightning  when  I  see  it, 

And  the  toad  when  I  see  it.  .  . 

I  warn  all  pretenders. 

Yet  before  I  came  it  was  known  of  me  to  the  chosen,  all  that  I 

should  do. 
Every  tree  knew  it; 
Every  lion  and  every  leech  knew  it — 
And  called  out  to  meet  the  new  enemy, 
The  new  friend.  .  . 
What  power  can  deny  me? 

It  was  known  that  I  should  do  not  one  thing  but  hundreds, 
For  I  despise  my  works  and  make  them  obey  me. 
I  have  my  time  and  I  bide  it.  .  . 
It  was  known  that  I  should  turn  no  whit  from  my  end,  until  I 

had  attained  it. 

Nothing  has  scathed  me, 

Nothing  ever,  nor  ever  will. 

I  have  touched  pitch,  I  have  revelled  in  it  and  rolled  in  it; 

Buried  in  mire  and  filth,  I  laughed  long, 

And  sprang  up. 

I  have  loved  lust  and  vain  deviltries. 

And  taken  them  into  my  heart — 


ORRICK  JOHNS  149 

Their  dirt  and  their  lies — and  my  heart  was  aflame 
With  a  new  fancy.  .  . 
Not  me  can  pitch  defile! 
For  the  Spring,  my  sister,  rose  under  my  feet 
And  I  was  again  naked  and  white, 
Ready  to  dive  into  the  deep  pool,  green  and  bottomless, 
The  medium  for  heroes,  since  it  is  dangerous  and  beautiful — 
The  pool  of  Tomorrow! 

It  is  because  I  breathe  like  fishes  and  live  hi  the  waters  of  To- 
morrow that  Death  fears  me.  .  . 

How  often  I  have  intercepted  thee,  O  Death! 

0  windy  liar! 

Thou  canst  do  nothing  against  me; 

If  I  command  thee  to  stand  back  thou  art  afraid  and  cowerest, 

For  I  have  caught  thee  often  and  punished  thee.  .  . 

1  am  the  greatest  laugher  of  all, 
Greater  than  the  sun  and  the  oak-tree, 
Than  the  frog  and  Apollo; 

I  laugh  all  day  long! 

I  laugh  at  Death,  I  hail  Death,  I  kiss  her  on  the  cheek  as  a  lover 

his  bride, 

But  the  lover  goes  not  to  his  bride  unless  he  desire  her; 
I  go  not  to  Death  until  I  am  ready. 
The  strong  lover  goes  not  to  his  bride  save  when  he  would  people 

his  land  with  sons; 
Then  I,  too,  I  go  not  to  Death,  save  it  be  for  the  labor  greater  than 

all  others. 

I  shall  break  her  with  my  laughter; 
I  shall  complete  her.  .  . 
Only  then  shall  Death  be  when  I  die! 


150  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Joyce  Kilmer 

TREES 

I  think  that  I  shall  never  see 
A  poem  lovely  as  a  tree. 

A  tree  whose  hungry  mouth  is  prest 
Against  the  earth's  sweet  flowing  breast; 

A  tree  that  looks  at  God  all  day, 
And  lifts  her  leafy  arms  to  pray; 

A  tree  that  may  in  summer  wear 
A  nest  of  robins  in  her  hair; 

Upon  whose  bosom  snow  has  lain; 
Who  intimately  lives  with  rain. 

Poems  are  made  by  fools  like  me, 
But  only  God  can  make  a  tree. 


EASTER 

The  air  is  like  a  butterfly 

With  frail  blue  wings. 
The  happy  earth  looks  at  the  sky 

And  sings. 


ALFRED  KREYMBORG  151 


Alfred  Kreymborg 

AMERICA 

Up  and  down  he  goes 

With  terrible,  reckless  strides, 

Flaunting  great  lamps 

With  joyous  swings — 

One  to  the  East 

And  one  to  the  West— 

And  flaunting  two  words 

In  a  thunderous  call 

That  thrills  the  hearts  of  all  enemies: 

All,  One;  All,  One;  All,  One;  All,  One! 

Beware  that  queer,  wild,  wonderful  boy 

And  his  playground — don't  go  near! 

All,  One;  All,  One;  All,  One;  All,  One; 

Up  and  down  he  goes. 


OLD  MANUSCRIPT 

The  sky 

Is  that  beautiful  old  parchment 

In  which  the  sun 

And  the  moon 

Keep  their  diary. 

To  read  it  all, 

One  must  be  a  linguist 

More  learned  than  Father  Wisdom; 

And  a  visionary 

More  clairvoyant  than  Mother  Dream. 

But  to  feel  it, 

One  must  be  an  apostle: 

One  who  is  more  than  intimate 


152  THE  NEW  POETRY 

In  having  been,  always, 
The  only  confidant — 
Like  the  earth 
Or  the  sea. 


CfiZANNE 

Our  door  was  shut  to  the  noon-day  heat. 

We  could  not  see  him. 

We  might  not  have  heard  him  either — 

Resting,  dozing,  dreaming  pleasantly. 

But  his  step  was  tremendous — 

Are  mountains  on  the  march? 


He  was  no  man  who  passed; 
But  a  great  faithful  horse 
Dragging  a  load 
Up  the  hill. 


PARASITE 

Good  woman: 

Don't  love  the  man. 

Love  yourself, 

As  you  have  done  so  exquisitely  before. 

Like  that  tortoise-shell  cat  of  yours 

Washing  away  the  flies;  or  are  they  fleas? 

You've  hurt  him  again? 

Good! 

Do  it.  of  ten. 

No— 

He'll  love  you  the  more — 

Always. 

Remember  how  he  forgave  you  the  last  time, 

And  how  he  loved  you  in  the  forgiving. 


WILLIAM  LAIRD  153 

Give  him  an  adventure  in  godhood 
And  the  higher  moralities. 
Hurt  him  again. 
Fine! 


William  Laird 

TRAtJMEREI  AT  OSTENDORFFS 

I  ate  at  OstendorfFs,  and  saw  a  dame 
With  eager  golden  eyes,  paired  with  a  red, 

Bald,  chilled,  old  man.    Piercing  the  clatter  came 
Keen  Traumerei.    On  the  sound  he  bowed  his  head, 
Covered  his  eyes,  and  looked  on  things  long  sped. 

Her  white  fierce  fingers  strained,  but  could  not  stir 

His  close-locked  hands,  nor  bring  him  back  to  her. 

Let  him  alone,  bright  lady;  for  he  clips 
A  fairer  lass  than  you,  with  all  your  fire: 

Let  him  alone;  he  touches  sweeter  lips 
Than  yours  he  hired,  as  others  yet  shall  hire: 
Leave  him  the  quickening  pang  of  clean  desire, 

Even  though  vain:  nor  taint  those  spring  winds  blown 

From  banks  of  perished  bloom:  let  him  alone. 

Bitter-sweet  melody,  that  call'st  to  tryst 
Love  from  the  hostile  dark,  would  God  thy  breath 

Might  break  upon  him  now  through  thickening  mist, 
The  trumpet-summons  of  imperial  Death  £ 
That  now,  with  fire-clean  lips  where  quivereth 

Atoning  sorrow,  he  shall  seek  the  eyes 

Long  turned  towards  earth  from  fields  of  paradist 


154  THE  NEW  POETRY 

In  vain:  by  virtue  of  a  far-off  smile, 
Men  may  be  deaf  a  space  to  gross  behests 

Of  nearer  voices;  for  some  little  while 
Sharp  pains  of  youth  may  burn  in  old  men's  breasts. 
But — men  must  eat,  though  angels  be  their  guests: 

The  waiter  brought  spaghetti;  he  looked  up, 

Hemmed,  blinked,  and  fiddled  with  his  coffee-cup. 

A  VERY  OLD  SONG 

"Daughter,  thou  art  come  to  die: 

Sound  be  thy  sleeping,  lass." 
"Well:  without  lament  or  cry, 

Mother,  let  me  pass." 

"What  things  on  mould  were  best  of  all? 

(Soft  be  thy  sleeping,  lass.) " 
"The  apples  reddening  till  they  fall 
In  the  sun  beside  the  convent  wall. 

Let  me  pass." 

"Whom  on  earth  hast  thou  loved  best? 

(Sound  be  thy  sleeping,  lass.) " 
"Him  that  shared  with  me  thy  breast; 
Thee;  and  a  knight  last  year  our  guest. 
He  hath  an  heron  to  his  crest. 

Let  me  pass." 

"What  leavest  thou  of  fame  or  hoard? 

(Soft  be  thy  sleeping,  lass.) " 
"My  far-blown  shame  for  thy  reward; 
To  my  brother,  gold  to  get  him  a  sword. 

Let  me  pass." 

"But  what  wilt  leave  thy  lover,  Grim? 

(Sound  be  thy  sleeping,  lass.) " 
"The  hair  he  kissed  to  strangle  him. 

Mother,  let  me  pass." 


D.  H.  LAWRENCE  155 

D.  H.  Lawrence 

A  WOMAN  AND  HER  DEAD  HUSBAND 

Ah  stern  cold  man, 

How  can  you  lie  so  relentless  hard 

While  I  wash  you  with  weeping  water! 

Ah  face,  carved  hard  and  cold, 

You  have  been  like  this,  on  your  guard 

Against  me,  since  death  began. 

You  masquerader! 
How  can  you  shame  to  act  this  part 
Of  unswerving  indifference  to  me? 
It  is  not  you;  why  disguise  yourself 
Against  me,  to  break  my  heart, 
You  evader? 

YouVe  a  warm  mouth, 

A  good  warm  mouth  always  sooner  to  soften 

Even  than  your  sudden  eyes. 

Ah  cruel,  to  keep  your  mouth 

Relentless,  however  often 

I  kiss  it  in  drouth. 

You  are  not  he. 

Who  are  you,  lying  in  his  place  on  the  bed 

And  rigid  and  indifferent  to  me? 

His  mouth,  though  he  laughed  or  sulked, 

Was  always  warm  and  red 

And  good  to  me. 

And  his  eyes  could  see 

The  white  moon  hang  like  a  breast  revealed 

By  the  slipping  shawl  of  stars, 


156  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Could  see  the  small  stars  tremble 
As  the  heart  beneath  did  wield 
Systole,  diastole. 

And  he  showed  it  me 

So,  when  he  made  his  love  to  me; 

And  his  brows  like  rocks  on  the  sea  jut  out, 

And  his  eyes  were  deep  like  the  sea 

With  shadow,  and  he  looked  at  me, 

Till  I  sank  in  him  like  the  sea, 

Awfully. 

Oh,  he  was  multiform — 

Which  then  was  he  among  the  manifold? 

The  gay,  the  sorrowful,  the  seer? 

I  have  loved  a  rich  race  of  men  in  one — 

But  not  this,  this  never-warm 

Metal-cold—! 

Ah  masquerader! 

With  your  steel  face  white-enamelled, 

Were  you  he,  after  all,  and  I  never 

Saw  you  or  felt  you  in  kissing? 

— Yet  sometimes  my  heart  was  trammelled 

With  fear,  evader! 

Then  was  it  you 

After  all,  this  cold,  hard  man? 

— Ah  no,  look  up  at  me, 

Tell  me  it  isn't  true, 

That  you're  only  frightening  me! 

You  will  not  stir, 

Nor  hear  me,  not  a  sound. 

— Then  it  was  you — 

And  all  this  time  you  were 

Like  this  when  I  lived  with  you. 


D.  H.  LAWRENCE  157 

It  is  not  true, 

I  am  frightened,  I  am  frightened  of  you 

And  of  everything. 

O  God!— God  too 

Has  deceived  me  in  everything, 

In  everything. 


FIREFLIES  IN  THE  CORN 

A  woman  taunts  her  lover: 

Look  at  the  little  darlings  in  the  corn! 

The  rye  is  taller  than  you,  who  think  yourself 

So  high  and  mighty:  look  how  its  heads  are  borne 

Dark  and  proud  on  the  sky,  like  a  number  of  knights 

Passing  with  spears  and  pennants  and  manly  scorn. 

And  always  likely! — Oh,  if  I  could  ride 

With  my  head  held  high-serene  against  the  sky 

Do  you  think  I'd  have  a  creature  like  you  at  my  side 

With  your  gloom  and  your  doubt  that  you  love  me? 

O  darling  rye, 
How  I  adore  you  for  your  simple  pride! 

And  those  bright  fireflies  wafting  in  between 
And  over  the  swaying  cornstalks,  just  above 
All  their  dark-feathered  helmets,  like  little  green 
Stars  come  low  and  wandering  here  for  love 
Of  this  dark  earth,  and  wandering  all  serene — ! 

How  I  adore  you,  you  happy  things,  you  dears, 
Riding  the  air  and  carrying  all  the  time 
Your  little  lanterns  behind  you:  it  cheers 
My  heart  to  see  you  settling  and  trying  to  climb 
The  corn-stalks,  tipping  with  fire  their  spears. 


158  THE  NEW  POETRY 

All  over  the  corn's  dim  motion,  against  the  blue 
Dark  sky  of  night,  the  wandering  glitter,  the  swarm 
Of  questing  brilliant  things: — you  joy,  you  true 
Spirit  of  careless  joy:  ah,  how  I  warm 
My  poor  and  perished  soul  at  the  joy  of  you! 

The  man  answers  and  she  mocks: 
You're  a  fool,  woman.    I  love  you,  and  you  know  I  do! 

— Lord,  take  his  love  away,  it  makes  him  whine. 
And  I  give  you  everything  that  you  want  me  to. 

— Lord,  dear  Lord,  do  you  think  he  ever  can  shine? 

GREEN 

The  dawn  was  apple-green, 

The  sky  was  green  wine  held  up  in  the  sun, 

The  moon  was  a  golden  petal  between. 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  green 

They  shone,  clear  like  flowers  undone 

For  the  first  time,  now  for  the  first  time  seen. 

GRIEF 

The  darkness  steals  the  forms  of  all  the  queens. 
But  oh,  the  palms  of  her  two  black  hands  are  red! 
It  is  Death  I  fear  so  much,  it  is  not  the  dead — 
Not  this  gray  book,  but  the  red  and  bloody  scenes. 

The  lamps  are  white  like  snowdrops  in  the  grass; 
The  town  is  like  a  churchyard,  all  so  still 
And  gray,  now  night  is  here:  nor  will 
Another  torn  red  sunset  come  to  pass. 

And  so  I  sit  and  turn  the  book  of  gray, 
Feeling  the  shadows  like  a  blind  man  reading, 
All  fearful  lest  I  find  some  next  word  bleeding. 
Nay,  take  my  painted  missal  book  away. 


AGNES  LEE  159 


SERVICE  OF  ALL  THE  DEAD 

Between  the  avenue  of  cypresses 

All  in  their  scarlet  capes  and  surplices 

Of  linen,  go  the  chaunting  choristers, 

The  priests  in  gold  and  black,  the  villagers. 

And  all  along  the  path  to  the  cemetery 
The  round  dark  heads  of  men  crowd  silently; 
And  black-scarfed  faces  of  women-folk  wistfully 
Watch  at  the  banner  of  death,  and  the  mystery. 

And  at  the  foot  of  a  grave  a  father  stands 
With  sunken  head  and  forgotten,  folded  hands; 
And  at  the  foot  of  a  grave  a  mother  kneels 
With  pale  shut  face,  nor  neither  hears  nor  feels 

The  coming  of  the  chaunting  choristers 
Between  the  avenue  of  cypresses, 
The  silence  of  the  many  villagers, 
The  candle-flames  beside  the  surplices. 


Agnes  Lee 

MOTHERHOOD 

Mary,  the  Christ  long  slain,  passed  silently, 
Following  the  children  joyously  astir 
Under  the  cedrus  and  the  olive-tree, 
Pausing  to  let  their  laughter  float  to  her. 
Each  voice  an  echo  of  a  voice  more  dear, 
She  saw  a  little  Christ  in  every  face; 
When  lo,  another  woman,  gliding  near, 
Yearned  o'er  the  tender  life  that  filled  the  place. 


160  THE  NEW  POETRY 

And  Mary  sought  the  woman 's  hand,  and  spoke: 
"I  know  thee  not,  yet  know  thy  memory  tossed 
With  all  a  thousand  dreams  their  eyes  evoke 
Who  bring  to  thee  a  child  beloved  and  lost. 

"I,  too,  have  rocked  my  little  one. 

Oh,  He  was  fair! 

Yea,  fairer  than  the  fairest  sun, 

And  like  its  rays  through  amber  spun 

His  sun-bright  hair. 

Still  I  can  see  it  shine  and  shine." 

"Even  so,"  the  woman  said,  "was  mine." 

"His  ways  were  ever  darling  ways" — 

And  Mary  smiled — 

"So  soft,  so  clinging!    Glad  relays 

Of  love  were  all  His  precious  days. 

My  little  child! 

My  infinite  star!    My  music  fled!" 

"Even  so  was  mine,"  the  woman  said. 

Then  whispered  Mary:  "Tell  me,  thou, 

Of  thine."    And  she: 

"Oh,  mine  was  rosy  as  a  bough 

Blooming  with  roses,  sent,  somehow, 

To  bloom  for  me! 

His  balmy  fingers  left  a  thrill 

Within  my  breast  that  warms  me  still." 

Then  gazed  she  down  some  wilder,  darker  hour, 
And  said — when  Mary  questioned,  knowing  not: 
"Who  art  thou,  mother  of  so  sweet  a  flower?" — 
"I  am  the  mother  of  Iscariot." 


AGNES  LEE  161 


A  STATUE  IN  A  GARDEN 

I  was  a  goddess  ere  the  marble  found  me. 

Wind,  wind,  delay  not! 
Waft  my  spirit  where  the  laurel  crowned  me! 

Will  the  wind  stay  not? 


Then  tarry,  tarry,  listen,  little  swallow! 

An  old  glory  feeds  me — 
I  lay  upon  the  bosom  of  Apollo! 

Not  a  bird  heeds  me. 

For  here  the  days  are  alien.    Oh,  to  waken 

Mine,  mine,  with  calling! 
But  on  my  shoulders  bare,  like  hopes  forsaken, 

The  dead  leaves  are  falling. 

The  sky  is  gray  and  full  of  unshed  weeping 

As  dim  down  the  garden 
I  wait  and  watch  the  early  autumn  sweeping. 

The  stalks  fade  and  harden. 

The  souls  of  all  the  flowers  afar  have  rallied. 

The  trees,  gaunt,  appalling, 
Attest  the  gloom,  and  on  my  shoulders  pallid 

The  dead  leaves  are  falling. 


ON  THE  JAIL  STEPS 

I've  won  the  race. 

Young  man,  I'm  new! 
Old  Sallow-face 

Good  luck  to  you! 


62  THE  NEW  POETRY 

I've  turned  about, 

And  paid  for  sin. 
And  you  come  out, 

As  I  go  in. 

Ten  years!  but  mark, 

I  am  free,  free! 
Ten  years  of  dark 

Shall  gather  me. 

My  wife— long-while 
She  wept  her  pain. 

She  cannot  smile; 
She  weeps  again. 

My  little  one 

Shall  know  my  call. 

Child  is  there  none 
For  sin  grows  tall. 

Now  who  are  you, 
Spar  of  hell's  flood? 

And  who,  and  who, 
But  your  own  blood? 

HER  GOING 

The  Wife 

Child,  why  do  you  linger  beside  her  portal? 
None  shall  hear  you  now  if  you  knock  or  clamor. 
All  is  dark,  hidden  in  heaviest  leafage. 
None  shall  behold  you. 

Truth 

Gone,  gone,  the  dear,  the  beautiful  lady! 
I,  her  comrade,  tarry  but  to  lament  her. 


AGNES  LEE  163 

Ah,  the  day  of  her  vanishing  all  things  lovely 
Shared  in  her  fleetness! 
Tell  me  her  going. 

The  Wife 

You  are  a  child.    How  'tell  you? 

Truth 

I  am  a  child,  yet  old  as  the  earliest  sorrow. 
Talk  to  me  as  you  would  to  an  old,  old  woman. 
I  own  the  ages. 

The  Wife 

Voices,  they  say,  gossipped  around  her  dwelling. 
She  awoke,  departing,  they  say,  in  silence. 
I  am  glad  she  is  gone.    The  old  hurt  fastens. 
Hate  is  upon  me. 

It  was  hard  to  live  down  the  day,  and  wonder, 
Wonder  why  the  tears  were  forever  welling, 
Wonder  if  on  his  lips  her  kiss  I  tasted 
Turning  to  claim  him. 

Truth 

Jealousy,  mad,  brooding  blind  and  unfettered, 
Takes  its  terrible  leap  over  lie  and  malice. 
Who  shall  question  her  now  in  the  land  of  shadow? 
Who  shall  uphold  her? 

The  Wife 

It  was  hard  to  know  that  peace  had  forsaken 
All  my  house,  to  greet  with  a  dull  endeavor 
Babe  or  book,  so  to  forget  a  moment 
I  was  forgotten. 


1 64  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Truth 

Who  shall  question  her  now  in  the  land  of  shadow, 
Question  the  mute  pale  lips,  and  the  marble  fingers, 
Eyelids  fallen  on  eyes  grown  dim  as  the  autumn? 
Ah,  the  beloved! 

The  Wife 

Go,  go,  bringer  of  ache  and  discord! 

Truth 

Go  I  may  not.    Some,  they  think  to  inter  me. 
Out  of  the  mold  and  clay  my  visible  raiment 
Rises  forever. 

The  Wife 

Hers  the  sin  that  lured  the  light  from  our  threshold, 
Hers  the  sin  that  I  lost  his  love  and  grew  bitter. 

Truth 

Lost  his  love?    You  never  possessed  it,  woman. 

The  Wife 

Sharp  tongue,  have  pity!  .  .  . 

Yes,  I  knew.    But  I  loved  him,  hoping  for  all. 
I  said  in  my  heart:  "Time  shall  bring  buds  to  blossom." 
I  almost  saw  the  flower  of  the  flame  descending. 
Then — she  came  toying. 

He  is  mine,  mine,  by  the  laws  of  the  ages! 
Mine,  mine,  mine — yes,  body  and  spirit! 
I  am  glad  she  has  gone  her  way  to  the  shadow. 
Hate  is  upon  me. 

Oh,  the  bar  over  which  my  soul  would  see 
All  that  eludes  my  soul,  while  he  remembers! 
You,  dispel  if  you  can  my  avenging  passion — 
Clouds  are  before  me! 


WILLIAM  ELLERY  LEONARD  165 

William  Ellery  Leonard 

INDIAN  SUMMER 

After  completing  a  book  for  one  now  dead. 

(O  Earth-and-Autumn  of  the  Setting  Sun, 

She  is  not  by,  to  know  my  task  is  done!} 
In  the  brown  grasses  slanting  with  the  wind, 
Lone  as  a  lad  whose  dog's  no  longer  near, 
Lone  as  a  mother  whose  only  child  has  sinned, 
Lone  on  the  loved  hill.  .  .  .    And  below  me  here 
The  thistle-down  in  tremulous  atmosphere 
Along  red  clusters  of  the  sumach  streams; 
The  shrivelled  stalks  of  goldenrod  are  sere, 
And  crisp  and  white  their  flashing  old  racemes. 
(.  .  .  forever  .  .  .  forever  .  .  .  forever  .  .  .) 
This  is  the  lonely  season  of  the  year, 
This  is  the  season  of  our  lonely  dreams. 

(0  Earth-and-Autumn  of  the  Setting  Sun 

She  is  not  by,  to  know  my  task  is  done!) 
The  corn-shocks  westward  on  the  stubble  plain 
Show  like  an  Indian  village  of  dead  days; 
The  long  smoke  trails  behind  the  crawling  train, 
And  floats  atop  the  distant  woods  ablaze 
With  orange,  crimson,  purple.    The  low  haze 
Dims  the  scarped  bluffs  above  the  inland  sea, 
Wfaose  wide  and  slaty  waters  in  cold  glaze 
Await  yon  full-moon  of  the  night-to-be. 
(.  ...  far  ...  and  far  ...  and  far  .  .  .) 
These  are  the  solemn  horizons  of  man's  ways, 
These  the  horizons  of  solemn  thought  to  me. 

(0  Earth-and-Autumn  of  the  Setting  Sun, 
She  is  not  by,  to  know  my  task  is  done!) 
And  this  the  hill  she  visited,  as  friend; 


166  THE  NEW  POETRY 

And  this  the  hill  she  lingered  on,  as  bride — 
Down  in  the  yellow  valley  is  the  end: 
They  laid  her  ...  in  no  evening  autumn  tide  .  .  . 
Under  fresh  flowers  of  that  May  morn,  beside 
The  queens  and  cave-women  of  ancient  earth. 

This  is  the  hill  .  .  .  and  over  my  city's  towers 

Across  the  world  from  sunset,  yonder  in  air, 

Shines,  through  its  scaffoldings,  a  civic  dome 

Of  piled  masonry,  which  shall  be  ours 

To  give,  completed,  to  our  children  there  .  .  . 

And  yonder  far  roof  of  my  abandoned  home 

Shall  house  new  laughter  .  .  .  Yet  I  tried  ...  I  tried 

And,  ever  wistful  of  the  doom  to  come, 

I  built  her  many  a  fire  for  love  ...  for  mirth  .  .  . 

(When  snows  were  falling  on  our  oaks  outside, 

Dear,  many  a  winter  fire  upon  the  hearth)  .  .  . 

(.  .  .  farewell  .  .  .  farewell  .  .  .  farewell  .  .  .) 

We  dare  not  think  too  long  on  those  who  died, 

While  still  so  many  yet  must  come  to  birth. 


Vachel  Lindsay 

GENERAL  WILLIAM  BOOTH  ENTERS  INTO  HEAVEN 

To  be  sung  to  the  tune  of  THE  BLOOD  or  THE  LAMB  with  indicated  instruments. 

Booth  led  boldly  with  his  big  bass  drum. 

Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb? 
The  saints  smiled  gravely,  and  they  said,  "He's  come." 

Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?  Bass  drums 

Walking  lepers  followed,  rank  on  rank, 
Lurching  bravos  from  the  ditches  dank, 
Drabs  from  the  alleyways  and  drug-fiends  pale — 
Minds  still  passion-ridden,  soul-powers  frail! 


VACHEL  LINDSAY  167 

Vermin-eaten  saints  with  mouldy  breath 
Unwashed  legions  with  the  ways  of  death — 
Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb? 

Every  slum  had  sent  its  half-a-score 

The  round  world  over — Booth  had  groaned  for  more. 

Every  banner  that  the  wide  world  flies 

Bloomed  with  glory  and  transcendent  dyes. 

Big- voiced  lasses  made  their  banjos  bang!  Banjos 

Tranced,  fanatical,  they  shrieked  and  sang, 

Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb? 
Hallelujah!    It  was  queer  to  see 
Bull-necked  convicts  with  that  land  make  free! 
Loons  with  bazoos  blowing  blare,  blare,  blare — 
On,  on,  upward  through  the  golden  air. 

Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb? 


Bass  drums 


Booth  died  blind,  and  still  by  faith  he  trod, 
Eyes  still  dazzled  by  the  ways  of  God. 
Booth  led  boldly  and  he  looked  the  chief: 

slower  ana 

Eagle  countenance  in  sharp  relief,  sojter 

Beard  a-flying,  air  of  high  command 
Unabated  in  that  holy  land. 

Jesus  came  from  out  the  Court-House  door, 

Stretched  his  hands  above  the  passing  poor. 

Booth  saw  not,  but  led  his  queer  ones  there  Plutes 

Round  and  round  the  mighty  Court-House  square. 

Yet  in  an  instant  all  that  blear  review 

Marched  on  spotless,  clad  in  raiment  new. 

The  lame  were  straightened,  withered  limbs  uncurled 

And  blind  eyes  opened  on  a  new  sweet  world. 

Drabs  and  vixens  in  a  flash  made  whole!  Bass  drums 

Gone  was  the  weasel-head,  the  snout,  the  jowl;  louder  and 

Sages  and  sibyls  now,  and  athletes  clean,  fasttr 
Rulers  of  empires,  and  of  forests  green! 


i68  THE  NEW  POETRY 

The  hosts  were  sandalled  and  their  wings  were  fire — 

Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb? 
But  their  noise  played  havoc  with  the  angel-choir.  Grand 

Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?  chorus 

Oh,  shout  Salvation!  it  was  good  to  see 
Kings  and  princes  by  the  Lamb  set  free.  ments  in  full 

The  banjos  rattled  and  the  tambourines  blast 

Jing-jing-jingled  in  the  hands  of  queens! 

And  when  Booth  halted  by  the  curb  for  prayer 
He  saw  his  Master  through  the  flag-filled  air.  Reverently 

Christ  came  gently  with  a  robe  and  crown  sung— no 

For  Booth  the  soldier  while  the  throng  knelt  down.          instruments 
He  saw  King  Jesus — they  were  face  to  face, 
And  he  knelt  a-weeping  in  that  holy  place. 
Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb? 


THE  EAGLE  THAT  IS  FORGOTTEN 

John  P.  Altgeld:  Dec.  30,  iStf-March  12,  1902. 

Sleep  softly  .  .  .  eagle  forgotten  .  .  .  under  the  stone. 
Time  has  its  way  with  you  there,  and  the  clay  has  its  own. 

"We  have  buried  him  now,"  thought  your  foes,  and  in  secret  re- 
joiced. 

They  made  a  brave  show  of  their  mourning,  their  hatred  unvoiced. 

They  had  snarled  at  you,  barked  at  you,  foamed  at  you  day  after 
day; 

Now  you  were  ended.    They  praised  you  .  .  .  and  laid  you  away. 

The  others  that  mourned  you  in  silence  and  terror  and  truth, 

The  widow  bereft  of  her  crust,  and  the  boy  without  youth, 

The  mocked  and  the  scorned  and  the  wounded,  the  lame  and  the 

poor, 
That  should  have  remembered  forever  .      .  remember  no  more. 


VACHEL  LINDSAY  169 

Where  are  those  lovers  of  yours,  on  what  name  do  they  call — 
The  lost,  that  in  armies  wept  over  your  funeral  pall? 
They  call  on  the  names  of  a  hundred  high-valiant  ones; 
A  hundred  white  eagles  have  risen,  the  sons  of  your  sons. 
The  zeal  in  their  wings  is  a  zeal  that  your  dreaming  began, 
The  valor  that  wore  out  your  soul  in  the  service  of  man. 

Sleep  softly  .  .  .  eagle  forgotten  .  .  .  under  the  stone. 
Time  has  its  way  with  you  there  and  the  clay  has  its  own. 
Sleep  on,  O  brave-hearted,  O  wise  man,  that  kindled  the  flame — 
To  live  in  mankind  is  far  more  than  to  live  in  a  name; 
To  live  in  mankind,  far,  far  more  .  .  .  than  to  live  in  a  name. 


THE  CONGO 

A  Study  of  the  Negro  Race 

I — THEIR   BASIC   SAVAGERY 

Fat  black  bucks  in  a  wine-barrel  room, 
Barrel-house  kings,  with  feet  unstable, 

Sagged  and  reeled  and  pounded  on  the  table,  A  dee*  rott~ 

Pounded  on  the  table, 

Beat  an  empty  barrel  with  the  handle  of  a  broom, 
Hard  as  they  were  able, 
Boom,  boom,  BOOM, 

With  a  silk  umbrella  and  the  handle  of  a  broom, 
ppmlay,  boomlay,  boomlay,  BOOM. 

N  I  had  religion,  THEN  I  had  a  vision. 
I  could  not  turn  from  their  revel  in  derision. 

N  I  SAW  THE  CONGO,  CREEPING  THROUGH  THE  BLACK,  More   delib' 

CUTTING  THROUGH  THE  JUNGLE  WITH  A  GOLDEN  TRACK.   ™ilmra 
IThen  along  that  riverbank  J7\  ^        chanted 

A  thousand  miles 

I  Tattooed  cannibals  danced  in  files; 
:  Then  I  heard  the  boom  of  the  blood-lust  song 

And  a  thigh-bone  beating  on  a  tin-pan  gong. 


170 


THE  NEW  POETRY 


And  "BLOOD!"  screamed  the  whistles  and  the  fifes  of  the  A  ™&®y 

piling  climax 

warriors,  of  speed  and 

"BLOOD!"  screamed  the  skull-faced,  lean  witch-doctors;  racket 
"Whirl  ye  the  deadly  voo-doo  rattle, 
Harry  the  uplands, 
Steal  all  the  cattle, 
Rattle-rattle,  rattle-rattle, 
ing! 

oomlay,  boomlay,  boomlay,  BOOM!" 
roaring,  epic,  rag-time  tune 
From  the  mouth  of  the  Congo 
To  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon. 
"*15eath  is  an  Elephant, 
Torch-eyed  and  horrible, 
Foam-flanked  and  terrible. 
BOOM,  steal  the  pygmies, 
;  BOOM,  kill  the  Arabs, 
J  BOOM,  kiU  the  white  men,  * 

Hoo,  Hoo,  Hoo. 

""""listen  to  the  yell  of  Leopold's  ghost 

Burning  in  Hell  f  r  his  hand-maimed  host. 
>  ^^p.  Hear  how  the  demons  chuckle  and  yell 
!  Cutting  his  hands  off,  down  in  Hell. 
Listen  to  the  creepy  proclamation, 
Blown  through  the  lairs  of  the  forest-nation, 
Blown  past  the  white-ants'  hill  of  clay, 

jBlown  past  the  marsh  where  the  butterflies  play: — 

^"^Be  careful  what  you  do, 

Or  Mumbo- Jumbo,  God  of  the  Congo, 
j    And  all  of  the  other 
Gods  of  the  Congo, 
Mumbo- Jumbo  will  hoo-doo  you, 
Mumbo- Jumbo  will  hoo-doo  you, 
Mumbo- Jumbo  will  hoo-doo  you." 


With  a  philo- 
sophic pause 


Shrilly    and 
with  a  heavily 
accented 
metre 


Like  the  wind 
in  the  chim- 
ney 


All    the     0 
sounds    very 
golden. 
Heavy    ac- 
cents very 
heavy.    Light 
accents    very 
light.      Last 
line    whis- 
pered 


.   VACHEL  LINDSAY 


171 


H — THEIR  IRREPRESSIBLE  HIGH  SPIRITS 

Wild  crap-shooters  with  a  whoop  and  a  call 

Danced  the  juba  in  their  gambling-hall 

And  laughed  fit  to  kill,  and  shook  the  town, 

And  guyed  the  policemen  and  laughed  them  down 

With  a  boomlay,  boomlay,  boomlay,  BOOM. 

THEN  I  SAW  THE  CONGO,  CREEPING  THROUGH  THE  BLACK, 

CUTTING  THROUGH  THE  JUNGLE  WITH  A  GOLDEN  TRACK. 

/  A  negro  fairyland  swung  into  view, 
A  minstrel  river 
Where  dreams  come  true. 

•   The  ebony  palace  soared  on  high 
Through  the  blossoming  trees  to  the  evening  sky. 
The  inlaid  porches  and  casements  shone 
With  gold  and  ivory  and  elephant-bone. 
And  the  black  crowd  laughed  till  their  sides  were  sore 
At  the  baboon  butler  in  the  agate  door, 
And  the  well-known  tunes  of  the  parrot  band 

.    That  trilled  on  the  bushes  of  that  magic  land. 


Rather  shrill 
and  high 


Read  exactly 
as     in    first 
section 
Lay    empha- 
sis on  the  del- 
icate ideas. 
Keep  as 
light-footed 
as  possible 


A  troupe  of  skull-faced  witch-men  came 

Through  the  agate  doorway  in  suits  of  flame, 

Yea,  long-tailed  coats  with  a  gold-leaf  crust 

And  hats  that  were  covered  with  diamond-dust. 

And  the  crowd  in  the  court  gave  a  whoop  and  a  call 

And  danced  the  juba  from  wall  to  wall. 

But  the  witch-men  suddenly  stilled  the  throng 

With  a  stern  cold  glare,  and  a  stern  old  song: 

"Mumbo- Jumbo  will  hoo-doo  you."  .  .  . 

Just  then  from  the  doorway,  as  fat  as  shotes 

Came  the  cake-walk  princes  in  their  long  red  coats, 

Canes  with  a  brilliant  lacquer  shine, 

And  tall  silk  hats  that  were  red  as  wine. 

And  they  pranced  with  their  butterfly  partners  there, 

Coal-black  maidens  with  pearls  in  their  hair, 


With     pom- 
posity 


With  a  great 
deliberation 
and    ghostli- 
ness 

With      over- 
whelming as- 
surance, good 
cheer,    and 
pomp 

With  growing 
speed    and 


172 


THE  NEW  POETRY 


Knee-skirts  trimmed  with  the  jassamine  sweet, 
And  bells  on  their  ankles  and  little  black  feet. 
And  the  couples  railed  at  the  chant  and  the  frown 
Of  the  witch-men  lean,  and  laughed  them  down. 
(Oh,  rare  was  the  revel,  and  well  worth  while 
That  made  those  glowering  witch-men  smile.) 


sharply 
marked 
dance- 
rhythm 


The  cake-walk  royalty  then  began 
To  walk  for  a  cake  that  was  tall  as  a  man 
To  the  tune  of  "Boomlay,  boomlay,  BOOM," 
/""""While  the  witch-men  laughed,  with  a  sinister  air, 
And  sang  with  the  scalawags  prancing  there: 
"Walk  with  care,  walk  with  care, 
Or  Mumbo- Jumbo,  God  of  the  Congo, 
And  all  of  the  other 
Gods  of  the  Congo, 
Mumbo- Jumbo  will  hoo-doo  you. 
Beware,  beware,  walk  with  care, 
Boomlay,  boomlay,  boomlay,  boom. 
Boomlay,  boomlay,  boomlay,  boom, 
Boomlay,  boomlay,  boomlay,  boom, 
Boomlay,  boomlay,  boomlay, 
*OOM." 

)h,  rare  was  the  revel,  and  well  worth  while 
That  made  those  glowering  witch-men  smile. 


With  a  touch 
of  negro  dia- 
lect, .and  as 
rapidly  as 
possible  to- 
ward the  end 


Slow    philo- 
sophic   calm 


m — THE  HOPE  OF  THEIR  RELIGION 

A  good  old  negro  in  the  slums  of  the  town 
Preached  at  a  sister  for  her  velvet  gown. 
Howled  at  a  brother  for  his  low-down  ways, 
His  prowling,  guzzling,  sneak-thief  days. 
Beat  on  the  Bible  till  he  wore  it  out 
Starting  the  jubilee  revival  shout. 
And  some  had  visions,  as  they  stood  on  chairs, 


Heavy    bass. 
With  a  literal 
imitation    oj 
camp-meet- 
ing  racket, 
and  trance 


VACHEL  LINDSAY 


173 


And  sang  of  Jacob,  and  the  golden  stairs. 

And  they  all  repented,  a  thousand  strong, 

From  their  stupor  and  savagery  and  sin  and  wrong, 

And  slammed  with  their  hymn-books  till  they  shook  the 

room 

With  "  Glory,  glory,  glory," 
And  "Boom,  boom,  BOOM." 

THEN  I  SAW  THE  CONGO,  CREEPING  THROUGH  THE  BLACK, 
CUTTING  THROUGH  THE  JUNGLE  WITH  A  GOLDEN  TRACK. 
And  the  gray  sky  opened  like  a  new-rent  veil 
And  showed  the  apostles  with  their  coats  of  mail. 
In  bright  white  steel  they  were  seated  round, 
And  their  fire-eyes  watched  where  the  Congo  wound. 
^And  the  twelve  Apostles,  from  their  thrones  on  high, 
.Thrilled  all  the  forest  with  their  heavenly  cry: 
"  Mumbo- Jumbo  will  die  in  the  jungle; 
Never  again  will  he  hoo-doo  you, 
Never  again  will  he  hoo-doo  you." 


Exactly  as  in 
the  first  sec- 
tion. Begin 
with  terror 
and  power, 
end  with  joy 


Sung   to   the 
tune  of 
"Hark,  ten 
thousand 
harps  and 
voices" 


Then  along  that  river,  a  thousand  miles 

The  vine-snared  trees  fell  down  in  files. 

Pioneer  angels  cleared  the  way 

For  a  Congo  paradise,  for  babes  at  play, 

JFor  sacred  capitals,  for  temples  clean. 

Gone  were  the  skull-faced  witch-men  lean. 

Xtefey-wtiere  the  wild  ghost-gods  had  wailed, 

A  million  boats  of  the  angels  sailed 

With  oars  of  silver,  and  prows  of  blue        ^ 

silken  pennants  that  the  sun  shone  through. 
'Twas  a  land  transfigured,  'twas  a  new  creation. 
Oh,  a  singing  wind  swept  the  negro  nation, 
And  on  through  the  backwoods  clearing  flew: — 
"~frMumbo- Jumbo  is  dead  in  the  jungle. 
Never  again  will  he  hoo-doo  you. 
Never  again  will  he  hoo-doo  you." 


With  growing 
deliberation 
and  joy 


In  a  rather 
high  key — as 
delicately  as 
possible 


To  the  tune  of 
"Hark,  ten 
thousand 
harps  and 
voices" 


174  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Redeemed  were  the  forests,  the  beasts  and  the  men, 

And  only  the  vulture  dared  again 

By  the  far,  lone  mountains  of  the  moon 

To  cry,  in  the  silence,  the  Congo  tune:  Dying  down 

"Mumbo- Jumbo  Will  hoO-doO  yOU,  into  a  pene- 

Mumbo- Jumbo  will  hoo-doo  you.  £rnS 

Mumbo  .  .  .  Jumbo  .  .  .  will  .  .  .  hoo-doo  .  .  .  you." whisper 

ALADDIN  AND  THE  JINN 

"Bring  me  soft  song,"  said  Aladdin; 

"This  tailor-shop  sings  not  at  all. 
Chant  me  a  word  of  the  twilight, 

Of  roses  that  mourn  in  the  fall. 
Bring  me  a  song  like  hashish 

That  will  comfort  the  stale  and  the  sad, 
For  I  would  be  mending  my  spirit, 

Forgetting  these  days  that  are  bad: 
Forgetting  companions  too  shallow, 

Their  quarrels  and  arguments  thin; 
Forgetting  the  shouting  muezzin." 

"/  am  your  slave"  said  the  Jinn. 

"Bring  me  old  wines,"  said  Aladdin, 
"I  have  been  a  starved  pauper  too  long. 

Serve  them  in  vessels  of  jade  and  of  shell, 
Serve  them  with  fruit  and  with  song: 

Wines  of  pre-Adamite  Sultans 

Digged  from  beneath  the  black  seas, 

New-gathered  dew  from  the  heavens 
Dripped  down  from  heaven's  sweet  trees, 

Cups  from  the  angels'  pale  tables 
That  will  make  me  both  handsome  and  wise; 

For  I  have  beheld  her,  the  Princess- 
Firelight  and  starlight  her  eyes! 

Pauper  I  am — I  would  woo  her. 


VACHEL  LINDSAY  175 

And  ...  let  me  drink  wine  to  begin, 
Though  the  Koran  expressly  forbids  it." 
"/  am  your  slave"  said  the  Jinn. 

"Plan  me  a  dome,"  said  Aladdin, 

"That  is  drawn  like  the  dawn  of  the  moon, 
When  the  sphere  seems  to  rest  on  the  mountains 

Half-hidden,  yet  full-risen  soon. 
Build  me  a  dome,"  said  Aladdin, 

"That  shall  cause  all  young  lovers  to  sigh — 
The  fulness  of  life  and  of  beauty, 

Peace  beyond  peace  to  the  eye; 
A  palace  of  foam  and  of  opal, 

Pure  moonlight  without  and  within, 
Where  I  may  enthrone  my  sweet  lady." 

"/  am  your  slave"  said  the  Jinn. 

THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 

A  Song  in  Chinese  Tapestries 
Dedicated  to  S.  T.  F. 

"How,  how,"  he  said.    "Friend  Chang,"  I  said, 
"  San  Francisco  sleeps  as  the  dead — 
Ended  license,  lust  and  play: 
Why  do  you  iron  the  night  away? 
Your  big  clock  speaks  with  a  deadly  sound, 
With  a  tick  and  a  wail  till  dawn  comes  round. 
While  the  monster  shadows  glower  and  creep, 
What  can  be  better  for  man  than  sleep?  " 

"I  will  tell  you  a  secret,"  Chang  replied; 
"  My  breast  with  vision  is  satisfied, 
And  I  see  green  trees  and  fluttering  wings, 
And  my  deathless  bird  from  Shanghai  sings." 
Then  he  lit  five  fire-crackers  in  a  pan. 


176  THE  NEW  POETRY 

"Pop,  pop!"  said  the  fire-crackers,  acra-cra-crack!" 

He  lit  a  joss-stick  long  and  black. 

Then  the  proud  gray  joss  in  the  corner  stirred; 

On  his  wrist  appeared  a  gray  small  bird, 

And  this  was  the  song  of  the  gray  small  bird: 

"Where  is  the  princess,  loved  forever, 

Who  made  Chang  first  of  the  kings  of  men?  " 

And  the  joss  in  the  corner  stirred  again; 

And  the  carved  dog,  curled  in  his  arms,  awoke, 

Barked  forth  a  smoke-cloud  that  whirled  and  broke. 

It  piled  in  a  maze  round  the  ironing-place, 

And  there  on  the  snowy  table  wide 

Stood  a  Chinese  lady  of  high  degree, 

With  a  scornful,  witching,  tea-rose  face  .  .  . 

Yet  she  put  away  all  form  and  pride, 

And  laid  her  glimmering  veil  aside 

With  a  childlike  smile  for  Chang  and  for  me. 

The  walls  fell  back,  night  was  aflower, 

The  table  gleamed  in  a  moonlit  bower, 

While  Chang,  with  a  countenance  carved  of  stone, 

Ironed  and  ironed,  all  alone. 

And  thus  she  sang  to  the  busy  man  Chang: 

"Have  you  forgotten  .  .  . 

Deep  in  the  ages,  long,  long  ago, 

I  was  your  sweetheart,  there  on  the  sand — 

Storm-worn  beach  of  the  Chinese  land? 

We  sold  our  grain  in  the  peacock  town 

Built  on  the  edge  of  the  sea-sands  brown — 

Built  on  the  edge  of  the  sea-sands  brown  .  .  . 

"When  all  the  world  was  drinking  blood 

From  the  skulls  of  men  and  bulls, 

And  all  the  world  had  swords  and  clubs  of  stone, 


VACHEL  LINDSAY  177 

We  drank  our  tea  in  China  beneath  the  sacred  spice-trees, 

And  heard  the  curled  waves  of  the  harbor  moan. 

And  this  gray  bird,  in  Love's  first  spring, 

With  a  bright-bronze  breast  and  a  bronze-brown  wing, 

Captured  the  world  with  his  carolling. 

Do  you  remember,  ages  after, 

At  last  the  world  we  were  born  to  own? 

You  were  the  heir  of  the  yellow  throne — 

The  world  was  the  field  of  the  Chinese  man 

And  we  were  the  pride  of  the  sons  of  Han. 

We  copied  deep  books,  and  we  carved  in  jade, 

And  wove  white  silks  in  the  mulberry  shade."  .  .  . 

"I  remember,  I  remember 
That  Spring  came  on  forever, 
That  Spring  came  on  forever," 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 

My  heart  was  filled  with  marvel  and  dream, 
Though  I  saw  the  western  street-lamps  gleam, 
Though  dawn  was  bringing  the  western  day, 
Though  Chang  was  a  laundryman  ironing  away  .  .  . 
Mingled  there  with  the  streets  and  alleys, 
The  railroad-yard,  and  the  clock-tower  bright, 
Demon-clouds  crossed  ancient  valleys; 
Across  wide  lotus-ponds  of  light 
I  marked  a  giant  firefly's  flight. 

And  the  lady,  rosy-red, 

Opened  her  fan,  closed  her  fan, 

Stretched  her  hand  toward  Chang,  and  said: 

"Do  you  remember, 

Ages  after, 

Our  palace  of  heart-red  stone? 

Do  you  remember 

The  little  doll-faced  children 


178  THE  NEW  POETRY 

With  their  lanterns  full  of  moon-fire, 

That  came  from  all  the  empire 

Honoring  the  throne? — 

The  loveliest  fete  and  carnival 

Our  world  had  ever  known? 

The  sages  sat  about  us 

With  their  heads  bowed  in  their  beards, 

With  proper  meditation  on  the  sight. 

Confucius  was  not  born; 

We  lived  in  those  great  days 

Confucius  later  said  were  lived  aright  .  .  . 

And  this  gray  bird,  on  that  day  of  spring, 

With  a  bright-bronze  breast  and  a  bronze-brown  wing, 

Captured  the  world  with  his  carolling. 

Late  at  night  his  tune  was  spent. 

Peasants, 

Sages, 

Children, 

Homeward  went, 

And  then  the  bronze  bird  sang  for  you  and  me. 

We  walked  alone,  our  hearts  were  high  and  free. 

I  had  a  silvery  name,  I  had  a  silvery  name, 

I  had  a  silvery  name — do  you  remember 

The  name  you  cried  beside  the  tumbling  sea?  " 

Chang  turned  not  to  the  lady  slim — 
He  bent  to  his  work,  ironing  away; 
But  she  was  arch  and  knowing  and  glowing. 
And  the  bird  on  his  shoulder  spoke  for  him. 

"Darling  .  .  .  darling  .  .  .  darling  .  .  .  darling  .  .  ." 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 

The  great  gray  joss  on  a  rustic  shelf, 
Rakish  and  shrewd,  with  his  collar  awry, 
Sang  impolitely,  as  though  by  himself, 


VACHEL  LINDSAY  179 

Drowning  with  his  bellowing  the  nightingale's  cry: 

"Back  through  a  hundred,  hundred  years 

Hear  the  waves  as  they  climb  the  piers, 

Hear  the  howl  of  the  silver  seas, 

Hear  the  thunder! 

Hear  the  gongs  of  holy  China 

How  the  waves  and  tunes  combine 

In  a  rhythmic  clashing  wonder, 

Incantation  old  and  fine: 

'Dragons,  dragons,  Chinese  dragons; 

Red  fire-crackers,  and  green  fire-crackers, 

And  dragons,  dragons,  Chinese  dragons."' 

Then  the  lady,  rosy-red, 

Turned  to  her  lover  Chang  and  said: 

"Dare  you  forget  that  turquoise  dawn 

When  we  stood  in  our  mist-hung  velvet  lawn, 

And  worked  a  spell  this  great  joss  taught 

Till  a  God  of  the  Dragons  was  charmed  and  caught? 

From  the  flag  high  over  our  palace-home 

He  flew  to  our  feet  in  rainbow-foam — 

A  king  of  beauty  and  tempest  and  thunder 

Panting  to  tear  our  sorrows  asunder, 

A  dragon  of  fair  adventure  and  wonder. 

We  mounted  the  back  of  that  royal  slave 

With  thoughts  of  desire  that  were  noble  and  grave. 

We  swam  down  the  shore  to  the  dragon-mountains, 

We  whirled  to  the  peaks  and  the  fiery  fountains. 

To  our  secret  ivory  house  we  were  borne. 

We  looked  down  the  wonderful  wing-filled  regions 

Where  the  dragons  darted  in  glimmering  legions. 

Right  by  my  breast  the  nightingale  sang; 

The  old  rhymes  rang  in  the  sunlit  mist 

That  we  this  hour  regain — 

Song-fire  for  the  brain. 

When  my  hands  and  my  hair  and  my  feet  you  kissed, 


l8o  THE  NEW  POETRY 

When  you  cried  for  your  heart's  new  pain, 
What  was  my  name  in  the  dragon-mist, 
In  the  rings  of  rainbowed  ram?  " 

"  Sorrow  and  love,  glory  and  love," 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 
"Sorrow  and  love,  glory  and  love," 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 

And  now  the  joss  broke  in  with  his  song: 

"Dying  ember,  bird  of  Chang, 

Soul  of  Chang,  do  you  remember? — 

Ere  you  returned  to  the  shining  harbor 

There  were  pirates  by  ten  thousand 

Descended  on  the  town 

In  vessels  mountain-high  and  red  and  brown, 

Moon-ships  that  climbed  the  storms  and  cut  the  skies. 

On  their  prows  were  painted  terrible  bright  eyes. 

But  I  was  then  a  wizard  and  a  scholar  and  a  priest; 

I  stood  upon  the  sand; 

With  lifted  hand  I  looked  upon  them 

And  sunk  their  vessels  with  my  wizard  eyes, 

And  the  stately  lacquer-gate  made  safe  again. 

Deep,  deep  below  the  bay,  the  sea-weed  and  the  spray, 

Embalmed  in  amber  every  pirate  lies, 

Embalmed  hi  amber  every  pirate  lies." 

Then  this  did  the  noble  lady  say: 

"Bird,  do  you  dream  of  our  home-coming  day 

When  you  flew  like  a  courier  on  before 

From  the  dragon-peak  to  our  palace-door, 

And  we  drove  the  steed  in  your  singing  path — 

The  ramping  dragon  of  laughter  and  wrath; 

And  found  our  city  all  aglow, 

And  knighted  this  joss  that  decked  it  so? 

There  were  golden  fishes  in  the  purple  river 


VACHEL  LINDSAY  181 

And  silver  fishes  and  rainbow  fishes. 

There  were  golden  junks  in  the  laughing  river, 

And  silver  junks  and  rainbow  junks: 

There  were  golden  lilies  by  the  bay  and  river, 

And  silver  lilies  and  tiger-lilies, 

And  tinkling  wind-bells  in  the  gardens  of  the  town 

By  the  black-lacquer  gate 

Where  walked  in  state 

The  kind  king  Chang 

And  his  sweet-heart  mate  .  .  . 

With  his  flag-born  dragon 

And  his  crown  of  pearl  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  jade; 

And  his  nightingale  reigning  in  the  mulberry  shade, 

And  sailors  and  soldiers  on  the  sea-sands  brown, 

And  priests  who  bowed  them  down  to  your  song — 

By  the  city  called  Han,  the  peacock  town, 

By  the  city  called  Han,  the  nightingale  town, 

The  nightingale  town." 

Then  sang  the  bird,  so  strangely  gay, 
Fluttering,  fluttering,  ghostly  and  gray, 
A  vague,  unravelling,  answering  tune, 
Like  a  long  unwinding  silk  cocoon; 
Sang  as  though  for  the  soul  of  him 
Who  ironed  away  in  that  bower  dim: 

"I  have  forgotten 

Your  dragons  great, 

Merry  and  mad  and  friendly  and  bold. 

Dim  is  your  proud  lost  palace-gate. 

I  vaguely  know 

There  were  heroes  of  old, 

Troubles  more  than  the  heart  could  hold, 

There  were  wolves  in  the  woods 

Yet  lambs  hi  the  fold, 

Nests  in  the  top  of  the  almond  tree  .  .  . 


182  THE  NEW  POETRY 

The  evergreen  tree  .  .  .  and  the  mulberry  tree 

Life  and  hurry  and  joy  forgotten, 

Years  on  years  I  but  half-remember  .  .  . 

Man  is  a  torch,  then  ashes  soon, 

May  and  June,  then  dead  December, 

Dead  December,  then  again  June. 

Who  shall  end  my  dream's  confusion? 

Life  is  a  loom,  weaving  illusion  .  .  . 

I  remember,  I  remember 

There  were  ghostly  veils  and  laces  .  .  . 

In  the  shadowy,  bowery  places  .  .  . 

With  lovers'  ardent  faces 

Bending  to  one  another, 

Speaking  each  his  part. 

They  infinitely  echo 

In  the  red  cave  of  my  heart. 

'Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweetheart!' 

They  said  to  one  another. 

They  spoke,  I  think,  of  perils  past. 

They  spoke,  I  think,  of  peace  at  last. 

One  thing  I  remember: 

Spring  came  on  forever, 

Spring  came  on  forever," 

Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 


Amy  Lowell 

PATTERNS 

I  walk  down  the  garden  paths, 

And  all  the  daffodils 

Are  blowing,  and  the  bright  blue  squills. 

I  walk  down  the  patterned  garden  paths 

In  my  stiff,  brocaded  gown. 


AMY  LOWELL  183 


With  my  powdered  hair  and  jewelled  fan, 

I  too  am  a  rare 

Pattern.    As  I  wander  down 

The  garden  paths. 

My  dress  is  richly  figured, 

And  the  train 

Makes  a  pink  and  silver  stain 

On  the  gravel,  and  the  thrift 

Of  the  borders. 

Just  a  plate  of  current  fashion, 

Tripping  by  in  high-heeled,  ribboned  shoes. 

Not  a  softness  anywhere  about  me, 

Only  whale-bone  and  brocade. 

And  I  sink  on  a  seat  in  the  shade 

Of  a  lime  tree.    For  my  passion 

Wars  against  the  stiff  brocade. 

The  daffodils  and  squills 

Flutter  in  the  breeze 

As  they  please. 

And  I  weep; 

For  the  lime  tree  is  in  blossom 

And  one  small  flower  has  dropped  upon  my  bosom. 

And  the  plashing  of  waterdrops 

In  the  marble  fountain 

Comes  down  the  garden  paths. 

The  dripping  never  stops. 

Underneath  my  stiffened  gown 

Is  the  softness  of  a  woman  bathing  in  a  marble  basin, 

A  basin  in  the  midst  of  hedges  grown 

So  thick,  she  cannot  see  her  lover  hiding, 

But  she  guesses  he  is  near, 

And  the  sliding  of  the  water 

Seems  the  stroking  of  a  dear 

Hand  upon  her. 


184  THE  NEW  POETRY 

What  is  Summer  in  a  fine  brocaded  gown! 

I  should  like  to  see  it  lying  in  a  heap  upon  the  ground. 

All  the  pink  and  silver  crumpled  up  on  the  ground. 

I  would  be  the  pink  and  silver  as  I  ran  along  the  paths, 

And  he  would  stumble  after, 

Bewildered  by  my  laughter. 

I  should  see  the  sun  flashing  from  his  sword  hilt  and  the  buckles  on 

his  shoes. 
I  would  choose 

To  lead  him  in  a  maze  along  the  patterned  paths, 
A  bright  and  laughing  maze  for  my  heavy-booted  lover, 
Till  he  caught  me  in  the  shade, 
And  the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat  bruised  my  body  as  he  clasped 

me, 

Aching,  melting,  unafraid. 

With  the  shadows  of  the  leaves  and  the  sundrops, 
And  the  plopping  of  the  waterdrops, 
All  about  us  in  the  open  afternoon — 
I  am  very  like  to  swoon 
With  the  weight  of  this  brocade, 
For  the  sun  shifts  through  the  shade. 

Underneath  the  fallen  blossom 

In  my  bosom, 

Is  a  letter  I  have  hid. 

It  was  brought  to  me  this  morning  by  a  rider  from  the  Duke. 

"Madam,  we  regret  to  inform  you  that  Lord  Hartwell 

Died  in  action  Thursday  se'nnight." 

As  I  read  it  in  the  white,  morning  sunlight, 

The  letters  squirmed  like  snakes. 

"Any  answer,  Madam?"  said  my  footman. 

"No,"  I  told  him. 

"  See  that  the  messenger  takes  some  refreshment. 

No,  no  answer." 


AMY  LOWELL  185 

And  I  walked  into  the  garden, 

Up  and  down  the  patterned  paths, 

In  my  stiff,  correct  brocade. 

The  blue  and  yellow  flowers  stood  up  proudly  in  the  sun, 

Each  one. 

I  stood  upright  too, 

Held  rigid  to  the  pattern 

By  the  stiffness  of  my  gown. 

Up  and  down  I  walked, 

Up  and  down. 

In  a  month  he  would  have  been  my  husband. 

In  a  month,  here,  underneath  this  lime, 

We  would  have  broke  the  pattern; 

He  for  me,  and  I  for  him, 

He  as  Colonel,  I  as  Lady, 

On  this  shady  seat. 

He  had  a  whim 

That  sunlight  carried  blessing. 

And  I  answered,  "It  shall  be  as  you  have  said." 

Now  he  is  dead. 

In  Summer  and  in  Winter  I  shall  walk 

Up  and  down 

The  patterned  garden  paths 

In  my  stiff,  brocaded  gown. 

The  squills  and  daffodils 

Will  give  place  toj>illared  roses,  and  to  asters,  and  to  snow. 

fsnaUgo 

Up  and  down, 

In  my  gown. 

Gorgeously  arrayed, 

Boned  and  stayed. 

And  the  softness  of  my  body  will  be  guarded  from  embrace 

By  each  button,  hook,  and  lace. 


l86  THE  NEW  POETRY 

For  the  man  who  should  loose  me  is  dead, 
Fighting  with  the  Duke  in  Flanders, 
In  a  pattern  called  a  war. 
Christ!    What  are  patterns  for? 

1777 

I — THE  TRUMPET- VINE  ARBOR 

The  throats  of  the  little  red  trumpet-flowers  are  wide  open, 

And  the  clangor  of  brass  beats  against  the  hot  sunlight. 

They  bray  and  blare  at  the  burning  sky. 

Red!  Red!  Coarse  notes  of  red, 

Trumpeted  at  the  blue  sky. 

In  long  streaks  of  sound,  molten  metal, 

The  vine  declares  itself. 

Clang! — from  its  red  and  yellow  trumpets. 

Clang! — from  its  long,  nasal  trumpets, 

Splitting  the  sunlight  into  ribbons,  tattered  and  shot  with  noise. 

I  sit  in  the  cool  arbor,  in  a  green  and  gold  twilight. 
It  is  very  still,  for  I  cannot  hear  the  trumpets; 
I  only  know  that  they  are  red  and  open, 
And  that  the  sun  above  the  arbor  shakes  with  heat. 
My  quill  is  newly  mended, 
And  makes  fine-drawn  lines  with  its  point. 
Down  the  long  white  paper  it  makes  little  lines, 
Just  lines, — up — down — criss-cross. 
My  heart  is  strained  out  at  the  pin-point  of  my  quill; 
It  is  thin  and  writhing  like  the  marks  of  the  pen. 
My  hand  marches  to  a  squeaky  tune, 
It  marches  down  the  paper  to  a  squealing  of  fifes. 
My  pen  and  the  trumpet-flowers, 

And  Washington's  armies  away  over  the  smoke-tree  to  the  south- 
west. 

"Yankee  Doodle,"  my  darling!    It  is  you  against  the  British, 
Marching  in  your  ragged  shoes  to  batter  down  King  George. 


AMY  LOWELL  187 

What  have  you  got  in  your  hat?  Not  a  feather,  I  wager. 
Just  a  hay-straw,  for  it  is  the  harvest  you  are  fighting  for. 
Hay  in  your  hat,  and  the  whites  of  their  eyes  for  a  target! 
Like  Bunker  Hill,  two  years  ago,  when  I  watched  all  day  from  the 

housetop, 

Through  father's  spy-glass, 
The  red  city,  and  the  blue,  bright  water, 
And  puffs  of  smoke  which  you  made. 
Twenty  miles  away, 

Round  by  Cambridge,  or  over  the  Neck, 
But  the  smoke  was  white — white! 
To-day  the  trumpet-flowers  are  red — red — 
And  I  cannot  see  you  fighting; 
But  old  Mr.  Dimond  has  fled  to  Canada, 
And  Myra  sings  "Yankee  Doodle"  at  her  milking. 

The  red  throats  of  the  trumpets  bray  and  clang  in  the  sunshine, 
And  the  smoke-tree  puffs  dun  blossoms  into  the  blue  air. 

n — THE  CITY  OF  FALLING  LEAVES 

Leaves  fall, 

Brown  leaves, 

Yellow  leaves  streaked  with  brown. 

They  fall, 

Flutter, 

Fall  again. 

The  brown  leaves, 

And  the  streaked  yellow  leaves, 

Loosen  on  their  branches 

And  drift  slowly  downwards. 

One, 

One,  two,  three, 

One,  two,  five. 

All  Venice  is  a  falling  of  autumn  leaves, 

Brown, 

And  yellow  streaked  with  brown. 


i88  THE  NEW  POETRY 

"That  sonnet,  Abate, 

Beautiful, 

I  am  quite  exhausted  by  it. 

Your  phrases  turn  about  my  heart, 

And  stifle  me  to  swooning. 

Open  the  window,  I  beg. 

Lord!    What  a  strumming  of  fiddles  and  mandolins! 

'Tis  really  a  shame  to  stop  indoors. 

Call  my  maid,  or  I  will  make  you  lace  me  yourself. 

Fie,  how  hot  it  is,  not  a  breath  of  air! 

See  how  straight  the  leaves  are  falling. 

Marianna,  I  will  have  the  yellow  satin  caught  up  with  silver  fringe, 

It  peeps  out  delightfully  from  under  a  mantle. 

Am  I  well  painted  to-day,  caro  Abate  mio? 

You  will  be  proud  of  me  at  the  Ridotto,  hey? 

Proud  of  being  cavalier  servente  to  such  a  lady?  " 

"Can  you  doubt  it,  bellissima  Contessa? 

A  pinch  more  rouge  on  the  right  cheek, 

And  Venus  herself  shines  less  ..." 

"You  bore  me,  Abate; 

I  vow  I  must  change  you! 

A  letter,  Achmet? 

Run  and  look  out  of  the  window,  Abate. 

I  will  read  my  letter  in  peace." 

The  little  black  slave  with  the  yellow  satin  turban 

Gazes  at  his  mistress  with  strained  eyes. 

His  yellow  turban  and  black  skin 

Are  gorgeous — barbaric^ 

The  yellow  satin  dress  with  its  silver  flashings 

Lies  on  a  chair, 

Beside  a  black  mantle  and  a  black  mask. 

Yellow  and  black, 

Gorgeous — barbaric. 

The  lady  reads  her  letter, 


AMY  LOWELL  189 


And  the  leaves  drift  slowly 

Past  the  long  windows. 

"How  silly  you  look,  my  dear  Abate, 

With  that  great  brown  leaf  in  your  wig. 

Pluck  it  off,  I  beg  you, 

Or  I  shall  die  of  laughing." 

A  yellow  wall, 

Aflare  in  the  sunlight, 

Chequered  with  shadows, 

Shadows  of  vine-leaves, 

Shadows  of  masks. 

Masks  coming,  printing  themselves  for  an  instant, 

Then  passing  on, 

More  masks  always  replacing  them. 

Masks  with  tricorns  and  rapiers  sticking  out  behind, 

Pursuing  masks  with  veils  and  high  heels, 

The  sunlight  shining  under  their  insteps. 

One, 

One,  two. 

One,  two,  three — 

There  is  a  thronging  of  shadows  on  the  hot  wall, 

Filigreed  at  the  top  with  moving  leaves. 

Yellow  sunlight  and  black  shadows, 

Yellow  and  black, 

Gorgeous — barbaric. 

Two  masks  stand  together, 

And  the  shadow  of  a  leaf  falls  through  them, 

Marking  the  wall  where  they  are  not. 

From  hat-tip  to  shoulder-tip, 

From  elbow  to  sword-hilt, 

The  leaf  falls. 

The  shadows  mingle, 

Blur  together, 

Slide  along  the  wall  and  disappear. 


IQO  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Gold  of  mosaics  and  candles, 

And  night-blackness  lurking  in  the  ceiling  beams. 

Saint  Mark's  glitters  with  flames  and  reflections. 

A  cloak  brushes  aside, 

And  the  yellow  of  satin 

Licks  out  over  the  colored  inlays  of  the  pavement. 

Under  the  gold  crucifixes 

There  is  a  meeting  of  hands 

Reaching  from  black  mantles. 

Sighing  embraces,  bold  investigations, 

Hide  hi  confessionals, 

Sheltered  by  the  shuffling  of  feet. 

Gorgeous — barbaric 

In  its  mail  of  jewels  and  gold, 

Saint  Mark's  looks  down  at  the  swarm  of  black  masks; 

And  outside  in  the  palace  gardens  brown  leaves  fall, 

Flutter, 

Fall. 

Brown, 

And  yellow  streaked  with  brown. 

Blue-black  the  sky  over  Venice, 

With  a  pricking  of  yellow  stars. 

There  is  no  moon, 

And  the  waves  push  darkly  against  the  prow 

Of  the  gondola, 

Coming  from  Malamocco 

And  streaming  toward  Venice. 

It  is  black  under  the  gondola  hood, 

But  the  yellow  of  a  satin  dress 

Glares  out  like  the  eye  of  a  watching  tiger. 

Yellow  compassed  about  with  darkness, 

Yellow  and  black, 

Gorgeous — barbaric. 

The  boatman  sings, 

It  is  Tasso  that  he  sings; 


AMY  LOWELL  IQI 

The  lovers  seek  each  other  beneath  their  mantles, 

And  the  gondola  drifts  over  the  lagoon,  aslant  to  the  coming  dawn. 

But  at  Malamocco  in  front, 

In  Venice  behind, 

Fall  the  leaves, 

Brown, 

And  yellow  streaked  with  brown. 

They  fall, 

Flutter, 

Fall. 

VENUS  TRANSIENS 
Tell  me, 

Was  Venus  more  beautiful 
Than  you  are, 
When  she  stopped 
The  crinkled  waves, 
Drifting  shoreward 
On  her  plaited  shell? 
Was  Botticelli's  vision 
Fairer  than  mine; 
And  were  the  painted  rosebuds 
He  tossed  his  lady 
Of  better  worth 

Than  the  words  I  blow  about  you 
To  cover  your  too  great  loveliness 
As  with  a  gauze 
Of  misted  silver? 

For  me, 

You  stand  poised 

In  the  blue  and  buoyant  air, 

Cinctured  by  bright  winds, 

Treading  the  sunlight. 

And  the  waves  which  precede  you 

Ripple  and  stir 

The  sands  at  my  feet. 


192  THE  NEW  POETRY 


A  LADY 

You  are  beautiful  and  faded, 

Like  an  old  opera  tune 

Played  upon  a  harpsichord; 

Or  like  the  sun-flooded  silks 

Of  an  eighteenth  century  boudoir. 

In  your  eyes 

Smoulder  the  fallen  roses  of  outlived  minutes, 

And  the  perfume  of  your  soul 

Is  vague  and  suffusing, 

With  the  pungence  of  sealed  spice  jars. 

Your  half-tones  delight  me, 

And  I  grow  mad  with  gazing 

At  your  blent  colors, 

My  vigor  is  a  new-minted  penny, 
Which  I  cast  at  your  feet. 
Gather  it  up  from  the  dust, 
That  its  sparkle  may  amuse  you. 


CHINOISERIES 

REFLECTIONS 

When  I  looked  into  your  eyes, 

I  saw  a  garden 

With  peonies,  and  tinkling  pagodas, 

And  round-arched  bridges 

Over  still  lakes. 

A  woman  sat  beside  the  water 

In  a  rain-blue,  silken  garment. 

She  reached  through  the  water 

To  pluck  the  crimson  peonies 

Beneath  the  surface, 


AMY  LOWELL  193 

But  as  she  grasped  the  stems, 

They  jarred  and  broke  into  white-green  ripples, 

And  as  she  drew  out  her  hand, 

The  water-drops  dripping  from  it 

Stained  her  rain-blue  dress  like  tears. 


FALLING  SNOW 

The  snow  whispers  about  me, 

And  my  wooden  clogs 

Leave  holes  behind  me  in  the  snow. 

But  no  one  will  pass  this  way 

Seeking  my  footsteps, 

And  when  the  temple  bell  rings  again 

They  will  be  covered  and  gone. 

HOAR-FROST 

In  the  cloud-gray  mornings 
I  heard  the  herons  flying; 
And  when  I  came  into  my  garden, 
My  silken  outer-garment 
Trailed  over  withered  leaves. 
A  dried  leaf  crumbles  at  a  touch, 
But  I  have  seen  many  Autumns 
With  herons  blowing  like  smoke 
Across  the  sky. 

SOLITAIRE 

When  night  drifts  along  the  streets  of  the  city, 
And  sifts  down  between  the  uneven  roofs, 
My  mind  begins  to  peek  and  peer. 
It  plays  at  ball  in  old,  blue  Chinese  gardens, 
And  shakes  wrought  dice-cups  in  Pagan  temples, 
Amid  the  broken  flutings  of  white  pillars. 


IQ4  THE  NEW  POETRY 

It  dances  with  purple  and  yellow  crocuses  in  its  hair, 
And  its  feet  shine  as  they  flutter  over  drenched  grasses. 
How  light  and  laughing  my  mind  is, 

When  all  the  good  folk  have  put  out  their  bed-room  candles, 
And  the  city  is  still! 

A  GIFT 

See!  I  give  myself  to  you,  Beloved! 

My  words  are  little  jars 

For  you  to  take  and  put  upon  a  shelf. 

Their  shapes  are  quaint  and  beautiful, 

And  they  have  many  pleasant  colors  and  lustres 

To  recommend  them. 

Also  the  scent  from  them  fills  the  room 

With  sweetness  of  flowers  and  crushed  grasses. 

When  I  shall  have  given  you  the  last  one 
You  will  have  the  whole  of  me, 
But  I  shall  be  dead. 


RED  SLIPPERS 

Red  slippers  in  a  shop-window;  and  outside  in  the  street,  flaws 
of  gray,  windy  sleet! 

Behind  the  polished  glass  the  slippers  hang  in  long  threads  of 
red,  festooning  from  the  ceiling  like  stalactites  of  blood,  flooding 
the  eyes  of  passers-by  with  dripping  color,  jamming  their  crimson 
reflections  against  the  windows  of  cabs  and  tram-cars,  screaming 
their  claret  and  salmon  into  the  teeth  of  the  sleet,  plopping  their 
little  round  maroon  lights  upon  the  tops  of  umbrellas. 

The  row  of  white,  sparkling  shop-fronts  is  gashed  and  bleeding, 
it  bleeds  red  slippers.  They  spout  under  the  electric  light,  fluid 
and  fluctuating,  a  hot  rain — and  freeze  again  to  red  slippers, 
myriadly  multiplied  in  the  mirror  side  of  the  window. 


AMY  LOWELL  195 

They  balance  upon  arched  insteps  like  springing  bridges  of 
crimson  lacquer;  they  swing  up  over  curved  heels  like  whirling 
tanagers  sucked  in  a  wind-pocket;  they  flatten  out,  heelless,  like 
July  ponds,  flared  and  burnished  by  red  rockets. 

Snap,  snap,  they  are  cracker  sparks  of  scarlet  in  the  white, 
monotonous  block  of  shops. 

They  plunge  the  clangor  of  billions  of  vermilion  trumpets  into 
the  crowd  outside,  and  echo  in  faint  rose  over  the  pavement. 

People  hurry  by,  for  these  are  only  shoes,  and  in  a  window  farther 
down  is  a  big  lotus  bud  of  cardboard,  whose  petals  open  every 
few  minutes  and  reveal  a  wax  doll,  with  staring  bead  eyes  and 
flaxen  hair,  lolling  awkwardly  in  its  flower  chair. 

One  has  often  seen  shoes,  but  whoever  saw  a  cardboard  lotus 
bud  before? 

The  flaws  of  gray,  windy  sleet  beat  on  the  shop-window  where 
there  are  only  red  slippers. 


APOLOGY 

Be  not  angry  with  me  that  I  bear 
Your  colors  everywhere, 
All  through  each  crowded  street, 

And  meet 
The  wonder-light  in  every  eye, 

As  I  go  by. 

Each  plodding  wayfarer  looks  up  to  gaze, 
Blinded  by  rainbow-haze, 
The  stuff  of  happiness, 

No  less, 
Which  wraps  me  in  its  glad-hued  folds 

Of  peacock  golds. 


196  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Before  my  feet  the  dusty,  rough-paved  way 
Flushes  beneath  its  gray. 
My  steps  fall  ringed  with  light, 

So  bright 

It  seems  a  myriad  suns  are  strown 
About  the  town. 

Around  me  is  the  sound  of  steepled  bells, 
And  rich  perfumed  smells 
Hang  like  a  wind-forgotten  cloud, 

And  shroud 
Me  from  close  contact  with  the  world. 

I  dwell,  impearled. 

You  blazon  me  with  jewelled  insignia. 
A  flaming  nebula 
Rims  in  my  life.    And  yet 

You  set 
The  word  upon  me,  unconfessed, 

To  go  unguessed. 


Percy  Mackaye 

OLD  AGE 

Old  Age,  the  irrigator, 

Digs  our  bosoms  straighter, 

More  workable  and  deeper  still 

To  turn  the  ever-running  mill 

Of  nights  and  days.    He  makes  a  trough 

To  drain  our  passions  off, 

That  used  so  beautiful  to  lie 

Variegated  to  the  sky, 

On  waste  moorlands  of  the  heart — 


PERCY  MACKAYE  197 

Haunts  of  idleness,  and  art 

Still  half-dreaming.    All  their  piedness, 

Rank  and  wild  and  shallow  wideness, 

Desultory  splendors,  he 

Straightens  conscientiously 

To  a  practicable  sluice 

Meant  for  workaday,  plain  use. 

All  the  mists  of  early  dawn, 

Twilit  marshes,  being  gone 

With  their  glamor,  and  their  stench, 

There  is  left — a  narrow  trench. 


SONG  FROM   "MATER" 

Long  ago,  in  the  young  moonlight, 

I  lost  my  heart  to  a  hero; 
Strong  and  tender  and  stern  and  right, 
Darker  than  night, 

And  terribler  than  Nero. 

Heigh,  but  he  was  dear,  O! 

And  there,  to  bind  our  fellowship, 

I  laughed  at  him;  and  a  moment  after, 

I  laughed  again  till  he  bit  his  lip, 
For  the  test  of  love  is  laughter. 

"Lord  and  master,  look  up!"  I  cried; 

"I  wreathe  your  brow  with  a  laurel! 
Gloom  and  wisdom  and  right  and  pride 
Cast  them  aside, 

And  kiss,  and  cure  our  quarrel. 

Never  mind  the  moral!" 

Alas!  with  strange  and  saddened  eyes 
He  looked  on  me;  and  my  mirth  grew  dafter, 

To  feel  the  flush  of  his  dark  surprise; 
For  the  zest  of  love  is  laughter. 


198  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Long  ago,  in  the  old  moonlight, 

I  lost  my  hero  and  lover; 
Strong  and  tender  and  stern  and  right, 
Never  shall  night 

Nor  day  his  brow  uncover. 

Ah,  my  heart,  that  is  over! 

Yet  still,  for  joy  of  the  fellowship 

That  bound  us  both  through  the  years  long  after, 
I  laugh  to  think  how  he  bit  his  lip; 
For  the  test  of  love — 

And  the  best  of  love — is  laughter. 


Frederic  Manning 

SACRIFICE 

Love  suffereth  all  things, 

And  we, 

Out  of  the  travail  and  pain  of  our  striving, 

Bring  unto  Thee  the  perfect  prayer: 

For  the  lips  of  no  man  utter  love, 

Suffering  even  for  love's  sake. 

For  us  no  splendid  apparel  of  pageantry — 

Burnished  breast-plates,  scarlet  banners,  and  trumpets 

Sounding  exultantly. 

But  the  mean  things  of  the  earth  Thou  hast  chosen, 

Decked  them  with  suffering; 

Made  them  beautiful  with  the  passion  for  Tightness, 

Strong  with  the  pride  of  love. 

Yea,  though  our  praise  of  Thee  slayeth  us, 
Yet  love  shall  exalt  us  beside  Thee  triumphant, 
Dying  that  these  live; 


FREDERIC  MANNING  199 

And  the  earth  again  be  beautiful  with  orchards, 

Yellow  with  wheatfields; 

And  the  lips  of  others  praise  Thee,  though  our  lips 

Be  stopped  with  earth,  and  songless. 

Yet  we  shall  have  brought  Thee  their  praises 

Brought  unto  Thee  the  perfect  prayer: 

For  the  lips  of  no  man  utter  love, 

Suffering  even  for  love's  sake. 

O  God  of  sorrows, 

Whose  feet  come  softly  through  the  dews, 

Stoop  Thou  unto  us, 

For  we  die  so  Thou  livest, 

Our  hearts  the  cups  of  Thy  vintage: 

And  the  lips  of  no  man  utter  love, 

Suffering  even  for  love's  sake. 

AT  EVEN 

Hush  ye!    Hush  ye!    My  babe  is  sleeping. 

Hush,  ye  winds,  that  are  full  of  sorrow! 
Hush,  ye  rains,  from  your  weary  weeping! 

Give  him  slumber  until  to-morrow. 

Hush  ye,  yet!    In  the  years  hereafter, 

Surely  sorrow  is  all  his  reaping; 
Tears  shall  be  in  the  place  of  laughter, 

Give  him  peace  for  a  while  in  sleeping. 

Hush  ye,  hush!  he  is  weak  and  ailing: 

Send  his  mother  his  share  of  weeping. 
Hush  ye,  winds,  from  your  endless  wailing; 

Hush  ye,  hush  ye,  my  babe  is  sleeping! 


200  THE  NEW  POETRY 


John  Masefield 
SHIPS 

I  cannot  tell  their  wonder  nor  make  known 
Magic  that  once  thrilled  through  me  to  the  bone; 
But  all  men  praise  some  "beauty,  tell  some  tale, 
Vent  a  high  mood  which  makes  the  rest  seem  pale, 
Pour  their  heart's  blood  to  nourish  one  green  leaf, 
Follow  some  Helen  for  her  gift  of  grief, 
And  fail  in  what  they  mean,  whatever  they  do: 
You  should  have  seen,  man  cannot  tell  to  you 
The  beauty  of  the  ships  of  that  my  city. 

That  beauty  now  is  spoiled  by  the  sea's  pity; 
For  one  may  haunt  the  pier  a  score  of  times, 
Hearing  St.  Nicholas  bells  ring  out  the  chimes, 
Yet  never  see  those  proud  ones  swaying  home 
With  mainyards  backed  and  bows  a  cream  of  foam, 
Those  bows  so  lovely-curving,  cut  so  fine, 
Those  coulters  of  the  many-bubbled  brine, 
As  once,  long  since,  when  all  the  docks  were  filled 
With  that  sea-beauty  man  has  ceased  to  build. 

Yet,  though  their  splendor  may  have  ceased  to  be 
Each  played  her  sovereign  part  in  making  me; 
Now  I  return  my  thanks  with  heart  and  lips 
For  the  great  queenliness  of  all  those  ships. 

And  first  the  first  bright  memory,  still  so  clear, 
An  autumn  evening  in  a  golden  year, 
When  in  the  last  lit  moments  before  dark 
The  Chepica,  a  steel-gray  lovely  barque, 


JOHN  MASEFIELD  2OI 

Came  to  an  anchor  near  us  on  the  flood, 
Her  trucks  aloft  in  sun-glow  red  as  blood. 

Then  come  so  many  ships  that  I  could  fill 

Three  docks  with  their  fair  hulls  remembered  still, 

Each  with  her  special  memory's  special  grace, 

Riding  the  sea,  making  the  waves  give  place 

To  delicate  high  beauty;  man's  best  strength, 

Noble  in  every  line  in  all  their  length. 

Ailsa,  Genista,  ships,  with  long  jibbooms, 

The  Wanderer  with  great  beauty  and  strange  dooms, 

Liverpool  (mightiest  then)  superb,  sublime, 

The  California  huge,  as  slow  as  time. 

The  Copley  swift,  the  perfect  /.  T.  North, 

The  loveliest  barque  my  city  has  sent  forth, 

Dainty  John  Lockett  well  remembered  yet, 

The  splendid  Argus  with  her  skysail  set, 

Stalwart  Drumcliff,  white-blocked,  majestic  Sierras, 

Divine  bright  ships,  the  water's  standard-bearers; 

Melpomene,  Euphrosyne,  and  their  sweet 

Sea-troubling  sisters  of  the  Fernie  fleet; 

Corunna  (in  whom  my  friend  died)  and  the  old 

Long  since  loved  Esmeralda  long  since  sold. 

Centurion  passed  in  Rio,  Glaucus  spoken, 

Aladdin  burnt,  the  Bidston  water-broken, 

Yola,  in  whom  my  friend  sailed,  Dawpool  trim, 

Fierce-bowed  Egeria  plunging  to  the  swim, 

Stanmore  wide-sterned,  sweet  Cupica,  tall  Bard, 

Queen  in  all  harbors  with  her  moon-sail  yard. 

Though  I  tell  many,  there  must  still  be  others, 
McVickar  Marshall's  ships  and  Fernie  Brothers', 
Lochs,  Counties,  Shires,  Drums,  the  countless  lines 
Whose  house-flags  all  were  once  familiar  signs 
At  high  main-trucks  on  Mersey's  windy  ways 
When  sunlight  made  the  wind-white  water  blaze. 


202  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Their  names  bring  back  old  mornings,  when  the  docks 
Shone  with  their  house-flags  and  their  painted  blocks, 
Their  raking  masts  below  the  Custom  House 
And  all  the  marvellous  beauty  of  their  bows. 

Familiar  steamers,  too,  majestic  steamers, 
Shearing  Atlantic  roller-tops  to  streamers, 
Umbria,  Etruria,  noble,  still  at  sea, 
The  grandest,  then,  that  man  had  brought  to  be, 
Majestic,  City  of  Paris,  City  of  Rome, 
Forever  jealous  racers,  out  and  home. 

The  Alfred  Holt's  blue  smoke-stacks  down  the  stream, 
The  fair  Loaiida  with  her  bows  a-cream. 
Booth  liners,  Anchor  liners,  Red  Star  liners, 
The  marks  and  styles  of  countless  ship-designers, 
The  Magdalena,  Puno,  Potosi, 
Lost  Cotopaxi,  all  well  known  to  me. 

These  splendid  ships,  each  with  her  grace,  her  glory, 

Her  memory  of  old  song  or  comrade's  story, 

Still  in  my  mind  the  image  of  life's  need, 

Beauty  in  hardest  action,  beauty  indeed. 

"They  built  great  ships  and  sailed  them,"  sounds  most  brave, 

Whatever  arts  we  have  or  fail  to  have. 

I  touch  my  country's  mind,  I  come  to  grips 

With  half  her  purpose,  thinking  of  these  ships: 

That  art  untouched  by  softness,  all  that  line 

Drawn  ringing  hard  to  stand  the  test  of  brine; 

That  nobleness  and  grandeur,  all  that  beauty 

Born  of  a  manly  life  and  bitter  duty; 

That  splendor  of  fine  bows  which  yet  could  stand 

The  shock  of  rollers  never  checked  by  land; 

That  art  of  masts,  sail-crowded,  fit  to  break, 

Yet  stayed  to  strength  and  backstayed  into  rake; 

The  life  demanded  by  that  art,  the  keen 


JOHN  MASEFIELD  203 

Eye-puckered,  hard-case  seamen,  silent,  lean. 
They  are  grander  things  than  all  the  art  of  towns; 
Their  tests  are  tempests  and  the  sea  that  drowns. 
They  are  my  country's  line,  her  great  art  done 
By  strong  brains  laboring  on  the  thought  unwon. 
They  mark  our  passage  as  a  race  of  men — 
Earth  will  not  see  such  ships  as  those  again. 


CARGOES 

Quinquireme  of  Nineveh  from  distant  Ophir, 

Rowing  home  to  haven  in  sunny  Palestine, 

With  a  cargo  of  ivory, 

And  apes  and  peacocks, 

Sandalwood,  cedarwood,  and  sweet  white  wine. 

Stately  Spanish  galleon  coming  from  the  Isthmus, 

Dipping  through  the  Tropics  by  the  palm-green  shores, 

With  a  cargo  of  diamonds, 

Emeralds,  amethysts, 

Topazes,  and  cinnamon,  and  gold  moidores. 

Dirty  British  coaster  with  a  salt-caked  smoke-stack, 

Butting  through  the  Channel  in  the  mad  March  days, 

With  a  cargo  of  Tyne  coal, 

Road-rails,  pig-lead, 

Firewood,  iron-ware,  and  cheap  tin  trays. 


WATCHING  BY  A  SICK-BED 

I  heard  the  wind  all  day, 
And  what  it  was  trying  to  say. 
I  heard  the  wind  all  night 
Rave  as  it  ran  to  fight; 


204  THE  NEW  POETRY 

After  the  wind  the  rain, 
And  then  the  wind  again 
Running  across  the  hill 
As  it  runs  still. 


And  all  day  long  the  sea 
Would  not  let  the  land  be, 
But  all  night  heaped  her  sand 
On  to  the  land; 
I  saw  her  glimmer  white 
All  through  the  night, 
Tossing  the  horrid  hair 
Still  tossing  there. 

And  all  day  long  the  stone 

Felt  how  the  wind  was  blown; 

And  all  night  long  the  rock 

Stood  the  sea's  shock; 

While,  from  the  window,  I 

Looked  out,  and  wondered  why, 

Why  at  such  length 

Such  force  should  fight  such  strength. 


WHAT  AM  I,  LIFE? 

What  am  I,  Life?    A  thing  of  watery  salt 

Held  in  cohesion  by  unresting  cells, 

Which  work  they  know  not  why,  which  never  halt, 

Myself  unwitting  where  their  Master  dwells. 

I  do  not  bid  them,  yet  they  toil,  they  spin 

A  world  which  uses  me  as  I  use  them ; 

Nor  do  I  know  which  end  or  which  begin 

Nor  which  to  praise,  which  pamper,  which  condemn. 

So,  like  a  marvel  in  a  marvel  set, 

t  answer  to  the  vast,  as  wave  by  wave 


EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS  205 

The  sea  of  air  goes  over,  dry  or  wet, 
Or  the  full  moon  comes  swimming  from  her  cave, 
Or  the  great  sun  comes  forth:  this  myriad  I 
Tingles,  not  knowing  how,  yet  wondering  why. 


Edgar  Lee  Masters 
SPOON  RIVER  ANTHOLOGY 

THE   HILL 

Where  are  Elmer,  Herman,  Bert,  Tom  and  Charley, 

The  weak  of  will,  the  strong  of  arm,  the  clown,  the  boozer,  the  fighter? 

All,  all,  are  sleeping  on  the  hill. 

One  passed  in  a  fever, 

One  was  burned  in  a  mine, 

One  was  killed  in  a  brawl, 

One  died  in  a  jail, 

One  fell  from  a  bridge  toiling  for  children  and  wife — 

All,  all  are  sleeping,  sleeping,  sleeping  on  the  hill. 

Where  are  Ella,  Kate,  Mag,  Lizzie  and  Edith, 

The  tender  heart,  the  simple  soul,  the  loud,  the  proud,  the  happy  one? — 

All,  all,  are  sleeping  on  the  hill. 

One  died  in  shameful  child-birth, 

One  of  a  thwarted  love, 

One  at  the  hands  of  a  brute  in  a  brothel, 

One  of  a  broken  pride,  in  the  search  for  heart's  desire, 

One  after  life  in  far-away  London  and  Paris 

Was  brought  to  her  little  space  by  Ella  and  Kate  and  Mag — 

All,  all  are  sleeping,  sleeping,  sleeping  on  the  hill. 


206  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Where  are  Uncle  Isaac  and  Aunt  Emily, 
And  old  Towny  Kincaid  and  Sevigne  Houghton, 
And  Major  Walker  who  had  talked 
With  venerable  men  of  the  revolution?— 
All,  all,  are  sleeping  on  the  hill. 

They  brought  them  dead  sons  from  the  war, 
And  daughters  whom  life  had  crushed, 
And  their  children  fatherless,  crying- 
All,  all  are  sleeping,  sleeping,  sleeping  on  the  hill. 

Where  is  Old  Fiddler  Jones 

Who  played  with  life  all  his  ninety  years, 

Braving  the  sleet  with  bared  breast, 

Drinking,  rioting,  thinking  neither  of  wife  nor  kin, 

Nor  gold,  nor  love,  nor  heaven? 

Lol  he  babbles  of  thefish-frys  of  long  ago, 

Of  the  horse-races  of  long  ago  at  Clary's  Grove, 

Of  what  Abe  Lincoln  said 

One  time  at  Springfield. 


OLLIE  MCGEE 

Have  you  seen  walking  through  the  viUage 

A  man  with  downcast  eyes  and  haggard  face? 

That  is  my  husband  who,  by  secret  cruelty 

Never  to  be  told,  robbed  me  of  my  youth  and  my  beauty; 

Till  at  last,  wrinkled  and  with  yellow  teeth, 

And  with  broken  pride  and  shameful  humility, 

I  sank  into  the  grave. 

But  what  think  you  gnaws  at  my  husband's  heart? 

The  face  of  what  I  was,  the  face  of  what  he  made  me! 

These  are  driving  him  to  the  place  where  I  lie. 

In  death,  therefore,  I  am  avenged. 


EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS  207 

DAISY  ERASER 

Did  you  ever  hear  of  Editor  Whedon 

Giving  to  the  public  treasury  any  of  the  money  he  received 

For  supporting  candidates  for  office? 

Or  for  writing  up  the  canning  factory 

To  get  people  to  invest? 

Or  for  suppressing  the  facts  about  the  bank, 

When  it  was  rotten  and  ready  to  break? 

Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  Circuit  Judge 

Helping  anyone  except  the  "Q"  railroad, 

Or  the  bankers?    Or  did  Rev.  Peet  or  Rev.  Sibley 

Give  any  part  of  their  salary,  earned  by  keeping  still, 

Or  speaking  out  as  the  leaders  wished  them  to  do, 

To  the  building  of  the  water  works? 

But  I — Daisy  Fraser,  who  always  passed 

Along  the  streets  through  rows  of  nods  and  smiles, 

And  coughs  and  words  such  as  "  there  she  goes," 

Never  was  taken  before  Justice  Arnett 

Without  contributing  ten  dollars  and  costs 

To  the  school  fund  of  Spoon  River! 


HARE  DRUMMER 

Do  the  boys  and  girls  still  go  to  Siever's 
For  cider,  after  school,  in  late  September? 
Or  gather  hazel  nuts  among  the  thickets 
On  Aaron  Hatfield's  farm  when  the  frosts  begin? 
For  many  times  with  the  laughing  girls  and  boys 
Played  I  along  the  road  and  over  the  hills 
When  the  sun  was  low  and  the  air  was  cool, 
Stopping  to  club  the  walnut  tree 
Standing  leafless  against  a  flaming  west. 
Now,  the  smell  of  the  autumn  smoke, 
And  the  dropping  acorns, 
And  the  echoes  about  the  vales 


208  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Bring  dreams  of  life.    They  hover  over  me. 

They  question  me: 

Where  are  those  laughing  comrades? 

How  many  are  with  me,  how  many 

In  the  old  orchards  along  the  way  to  Siever's, 

And  in  the  woods  that  overlook 

The  quiet  water? 

DOC  HILL 

I  went  up  and  down  the  streets 

Here  and  there  by  day  and  night, 

Through  all  hours  of  the  night  caring  for  the  poor  who  were  sick. 

Do  you  know  why? 

My  wife  hated  me,  my  son  went  to  the  dogs. 

And  I  turned  to  the  people  and  poured  out  my  love  to  them. 

Sweet  it  was  to  see  the  crowds  about  the  lawns  on  the  day  of  my 

funeral, 

And  hear  them  murmur  their  love  and  sorrow. 
But  oh,  dear  God,  my  soul  trembled,  scarcely  able 
To  hold  to  the  railing  of  the  new  life 
When  I  saw  Em  Stanton  behind  the  oak  tree 
At  the  grave, 
Hiding  herself,  and  her  grief! 


FIDDLER  JONES 

The  earth  keeps  some  vibration  going 
There  hi  your  heart,  and  that  is  you. 
And  if  the  people  find  you  can  fiddle, 
Why,  fiddle  you  must,  for  all  your  life. 
What  do  you  see,  a  harvest  of  clover? 
Or  a  meadow  to  walk  through  to  the  river? 
The  wind's  in  the  corn;  you  rub  your  hands 
For  beeves  hereafter  ready  for  market; 
Or  else  you  hear  the  rustle  of  skirts 


EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS  209 


Like  the  girls  when  dancing  at  Little  Grove. 

To  Cooney  Potter  a  pillar  of  dust 

Or  whirling  leaves  meant  ruinous  drouth; 

They  looked  to  me  like  Red-Head  Sammy 

Stepping  it  off,  to  "Toor-a-Loor." 

How  could  I  till  my  forty  acres 

Not  to  speak  of  getting  more, 

With  a  medley  of  horns,  bassoons  and  piccolos 

Stirred  in  my  brain  by  crows  and  robins 

And  the  creak  of  a  wind-mill — only  these? 

And  I  never  started  to  plow  in  my  life 

That  some  one  did  not  stop  in  the  road 

And  take  me  away  to  a  dance  or  picnic. 

I  ended  up  with  forty  acres; 

I  ended  up  with  a  broken  fiddle — 

And  a  broken  laugh,  and  a  thousand  memories, 

And  not  a  single  regret. 


THOMAS  RHODES 

Very  well,  you  liberals, 

And  navigators  into  realms  intellectual, 

You  sailors  through  heights  imaginative, 

Blown  about  by  erratic  currents,  tumbling  into  air  pockets, 

You  Margaret  Fuller  Slacks,  Petits, 

And  Tennessee  Claflin  Shopes — 

You  found  with  all  your  boasted  wisdom 

How  hard  at  the  last  it  is 

To  keep  the  soul  from  splitting  into  cellular  atoms. 

While  we,  seekers  of  earth's  treasures, 

Getters  and  hoarders  of  gold, 

Are  self-contained,  compact,  harmonized, 

Even  to  the  end. 


210  THE  NEW  POETRY 

EDITOR  WHEDON 

To  be  able  to  see  every  side  of  every  question; 

To  be  on  every  side,  to  be  everything,  to  be  nothing  long; 

To  pervert  truth,  to  ride  it  for  a  purpose, 

To  use  great  feelings  and  passions  of  the  human  family 

For  base  designs,  for  cunning  ends, 

To  wear  a  mask  like  the  Greek  actors — 

Your  eight-page  paper — behind  which  you  huddle, 

Bawling  through  the  megaphone  of  big  type: 

"This  is  I,  the  giant." 

Thereby  also  living  the  life  of  a  sneak-thief, 

Poisoned  with  the  anonymous  words 

Of  your  clandestine  soul. 

To  scratch  dirt  over  scandal  for  money, 

And  exhume  it  to  the  winds  for  revenge, 

Or  to  sell  papers 

Crushing  reputations,  or  bodies,  if  need  be, 

To  win  at  any  cost,  save  your  own  life. 

To  glory  hi  demoniac  power,  ditching  civilization, 

As  a  paranoiac  boy  puts  a  log  on  the  track 

And  derails  the  express  train. 

To  be  an  editor,  as  I  was — 

Then  to  lie  here  close  by  the  river  over  the  place 

Where  the  sewage  flows  from  the  village, 

And  the  empty  cans  and  garbage  are  dumped, 

And  abortions  are  hidden. 

SETH  COMPTON 

When  I  died,  the  circulating  library 

Which  I  built  up  for  Spoon  River, 

And  managed  for  the  good  of  inquiring  minds, 

Was  sold  at  auction  on  the  public  square, 

As  if  to  destroy  the  last  vestige 

Of  my  memory  and  influence. 

For  those  of  you  who  could  not  see  the  virtue 


EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS  21 1 

Of  knowing  Volney's  Ruins  as  well  as  Butler's  Analogy 

And  Faust  as  well  as  Evangeline, 

Were  really  the  power  in  the  village, 

And  often  you  asked  me, 

"What  is  the  use  of  knowing  the  evil  in  the  world?" 

I  am  out  of  your  way  now,  Spoon  River — 

Choose  your  own  good  and  call  it  good. 

For  I  could  never  make  you  see 

That  no  one  knows  what  is  good 

Who  knows  not  what  is  evil; 

And  no  one  knows  what  is  true 

Who  knows  not  what  is  false. 

HENRY  C.  CALHOUN 

I  reached  the  highest  place  in  Spoon  River, 

But  through  what  bitterness  of  spirit! 

The  face  of  my  father,  sitting  speechless, 

Child-like,  watching  his  canaries, 

And  looking  at  the  court-house  window 

Of  the  county  judge's  room, 

And  his  admonitions  to  me  to  seek 

My  own  in  life,  and  punish  Spoon  River 

To  avenge  the  wrong  the  people  did  him, 

Filled  me  with  furious  energy 

To  seek  for  wealth  and  seek  for  power. 

But  what  did  he  do  but  send  me  along 

The  path  that  leads  to  the  grove  of  the  Furies? 

I  followed  the  path  and  I  tell  you  this: 

On  the  way  to  the  grove  you'll  pass  the  Fates, 

Shadow-eyed,  bent  over  their  weaving. 

Stop  for  a  moment,  and  if  you  see 

The  thread  of  revenge  leap  out  of  the  shuttle 

Then  quickly  snatch  from  Atropos 

The  shears  and  cut  it,  lest  your  sons, 

And  the  children  of  them  and  their  children 

Wear  the  envenomed  robe. 


212  THE  NEW  POETRY 


PERRY  ZOLL 

My  thanks,  friends  of  the  County  Scientific  Association, 

For  this  modest  boulder, 

And  its  little  tablet  of  bronze. 

Twice  I  tried  to  join  your  honored  body, 

And  was  rejected, 

And  when  my  little  brochure 

On  the  intelligence  of  plants 

Began  to  attract  attention 

You  almost  voted  me  in. 

After  that  I  grew  beyond  the  need  of  you 

And  your  recognition. 

Yet  I  do  not  reject  your  memorial  stone, 

Seeing  that  I  should,  in  so  doing, 

Deprive  you  of  honor  to  yourselves. 

ARCHIBALD  HIGBIE 

I  loathed  you,  Spoon  River.    I  tried  to  rise  above  you, 

I  was  ashamed  of  you.    I  despised  you 

As  the  place  of  my  nativity. 

And  there  in  Rome,  among  the  artists, 

Speaking  Italian,  speaking  French, 

I  seemed  to  myself  at  times  to  be  free 

Of  every  trace  of  my  origin. 

I  seemed  to  be  reaching  the  heights  of  art 

And  to  breathe  the  air  that  the  masters  breathed, 

And  to  see  the  world  with  their  eyes. 

But  still  they'd  pass  my  work  and  say: 

"What  are  you  driving  at,  my  friend? 

Sometimes  the  face  looks  like  Apollo's, 

At  others  it  has  a  trace  of  Lincoln's." 

There  was  no  culture,  you  know,  in  Spoon  River, 

And  I  burned  with  shame  and  held  my  peace. 

And  what  could  I  do,  all  covered  over 


EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS  213 

And  weighted  down  with  western  soil, 
Except  aspire,  and  pray  for  another 
Birth  in  the  world,  with  all  of  Spoon  River 
Rooted  out  of  my  soul? 

FATHER  MALLOY 

You  are  over  there,  Father  Malloy, 

Where  holy  ground  is,  and  the  cross  marks  every  grave, 

Not  here  with  us  on  the  hill — 

Us  of  wavering  faith,  and  clouded  vision 

And  drifting  hope,  and  unforgiven  sins. 

You  were  so  human,  Father  Malloy, 

Taking  a  friendly  glass  sometimes  with  us, 

Siding  with  us  who  would  rescue  Spoon  River 

From  the  coldness  and  the  dreariness  of  village  morality. 

You  were  like  a  traveler  who  brings  a  little  box  of  sand 

From  the  wastes  about  the  pyramids 

And  makes  them  real  and  Egypt  real. 

You  were  a  part  of  and  related  to  a  great  past, 

And  yet  you  were  so  close  to  many  of  us. 

You  believed  in  the  joy  of  life. 

You  did  not  seem  to  be  ashamed  of  the  flesh. 

You  faced  life  as  it  is, 

And  as  it  changes. 

Some  of  us  almost  came  to  you,  Father  Malloy, 

Seeing  how  your  church  had  divined  the  heart, 

And  provided  for  it, 

Through  Peter  the  Flame, 

Peter  the  Rock. 

LUCINDA  MATLOCK 

I  went  to  the  dances  at  Chandlerville, 

And  played  snap-out  at  Winchester. 

One  time  we  changed  partners, 

Driving  home  in  the  moonlight  of  middle  June, 


214  THE  NEW  POETRY 

And  then  I  found  Davis. 

We  were  married  and  lived  together  for  seventy  years, 

Enjoying,  working,  raising  the  twelve  children, 

Eight  of  whom  we  lost 

Ere  I  had  reached  the  age  of  sixty. 

I  spun,  I  wove,  I  kept  the  house,  I  nursed  the  sick, 

I  made  the  garden,  and  for  holiday 

Rambled  over  the  fields  where  sang  the  larks, 

And  by  Spoon  River  gathering  many  a  shell, 

And  many  a  flower  and  medicinal  weed — 

Shouting  to  the  wooded  hills,  singing  to  the  green  valleys. 

At  ninety-six  I  had  lived  enough,  that  is  all, 

And  passed  to  a  sweet  repose. 

What  is  this  I  hear  of  sorrow  and  weariness, 

Anger,  discontent  and  drooping  hopes? 

Degenerate  sons  and  daughters, 

Life  is  too  strong  for  you — 

It  takes  life  to  love  Life. 


ANNE  RUTLEDGE 

Out  of  me  unworthy  and  unknown 

The  vibrations  of  deathless  music; 

"With  malice  toward  none,  with  charity  for  all." 

Out  of  me  the  forgiveness  of  millions  toward  millions, 

And  the  beneficent  face  of  a  nation 

Shining  with  justice  and  truth. 

I  am  Anne  Rutledge  who  sleep  beneath  these  weeds, 

Beloved  in  life  of  Abraham  Lincoln, 

Wedded  to  him,  not  through  union, 

But  through  separation. 

Bloom  forever,  O  Republic, 

From  the  dust  of  my  bosom! 


EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS  215 

WILLIAM  H.   HERNDON 

There  by  the  window  in  the  old  house 

Perched  on  the  bluff,  overlooking  miles  of  valley, 

My  days  of  labor  closed,  sitting  out  life's  decline, 

Day  by  day  did  I  look  in  my  memory, 

As  one  who  gazes  in  an  enchantress'  crystal  globe, 

And  I  saw  the  figures  of  the  past, 

As  if  in  a  pageant  glassed  by  a  shining  dream, 

Move  through  the  incredible  sphere  of  time. 

And  I  saw  a  man  arise  from  the  soil  like  a  fabled  giant 

And  throw  himself  over  a  deathless  destiny, 

Master  of  great  armies,  head  of  the  republic, 

Bringing  together  into  a  dithyramb  of  recreative  song 

The  epic  hopes  of  a  people; 

At  the  same  time  Vulcan  of  sovereign  fires, 

Where  imperishable  shields  and  swords  were  beaten  out 

From  spirits  tempered  in  heaven. 

Look  in  the  crystal!    See  how  he  hastens  on 

To  the  place  where  his  path  comes  up  to  the  path 

Of  a  child  of  Plutarch  and  Shakespeare. 

O  Lincoln,  actor  indeed,  playing  well  your  part, 

And  Booth,  who  strode  in  a  mimic  play  within  the  play, 

Often  and  often  I  saw  you, 

As  the  cawing  crows  winged  their  way  to  the  wood 

Over  my  house-top  at  solemn  sunsets, 

There  by  my  window, 

Alone. 

RUTHERFORD  MCDOWELL 

They  brought  me  ambrotypes 

Of  the  old  pioneers  to  enlarge. 

And  sometimes  one  sat  for  me — 

Some  one  who  was  in  being 

When  giant  hands  from  the  womb  of  the  world 

Tore  the  republic. 


2i6  THE  NEW  POETRY 

What  was  it  in  their  eyes? — 

For  I  could  never  fathom 

That  mystical  pathos  of  drooped  eyelids, 

And  the  serene  sorrow  of  their  eyes. 

It  was  like  a  pool  of  water, 

Amid  oak  trees  at  the  edge  of  a  forest, 

Where  the  leaves  fall, 

As  you  hear  the  crow  of  a  cock 

From  a  far-off  farm  house,  seen  near  the  hills 

Where  the  third  generation  lives,  and  the  strong  men 

And  the  strong  women  are  gone  and  forgotten. 

And  these  grand-children  and  great  grand-children 

Of  the  pioneers! — 

Truly  did  my  camera  record  their  faces,  too, 

With  so  much  of  the  old  strength  gone, 

And  the  old  faith  gone, 

And  the  old  mastery  of  life  gone, 

And  the  old  courage  gone, 

Which  labors  and  loves  and  suffers  and  sings 

Under  the  sun! 


ARLO  WILL 

Did  you  ever  see  an  alligator 

Come  up  to  the  air  from  the  mud, 

Staring  blindly  under  the  full  glare  of  noon? 

Have  you  seen  the  stabled  horses  at  night 

Tremble  and  start  back  at  the  sight  of  a  lantern? 

Have  you  ever  walked  in  darkness 

When  an  unknown  door  was  open  before  you 

And  you  stood,  it  seemed,  in  the  light  of  a  thousand  candles 

Of  delicate  wax? 

Have  you  walked  with  the  wind  in  your  ears 

And  the  sunlight  about  you 

And  found  it  suddenly  shine  with  an  inner  splendor? 

Out  of  the  mud  many  times, 


EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS  217 

Before  many  doors  of  light, 

Through  many  fields  of  splendor, 

Where  around  your  steps  a  soundless  glory  scatters 

Like  new-fallen  snow, 

Will  you  go  through  earth,  O  strong  of  soul, 

And  through  unnumbered  heavens 

To  the  final  flame! 


AARON  HATFIELD 

Better  than  granite,  Spoon  River, 

Is  the  memory-picture  you  keep  of  me 

Standing  before  the  pioneer  men  and  women 

There  at  Concord  Church  on  Communion  day. 

Speaking  in  broken  voice  of  the  peasant  youth 

Of  Galilee  who  went  to  the  city 

And  was  killed  by  bankers  and  lawyers; 

My  voice  mingling  with  the  June  wind 

That  blew  over  wheat  fields  from  Atterbury; 

While  the  white  stones  in  the  burying  ground 

Around  the  Church  shimmered  in  the  summer  sun. 

And  there,  though  my  own  memories 

Were  too  great  to  bear,  were  you,  O  pioneers, 

With  bowed  heads  breathing  forth  your  sorrow 

For  the  sons  killed  in  battle  and  the  daughters 

And  little  children  who  vanished  in  life's  morning, 

Or  at  the  intolerable  hour  of  noon. 

But  in  those  moments  of  tragic  silence, 

When  the  wine  and  bread  were  passed, 

Came  the  reconciliation  for  us — 

Us  the  ploughmen  and  the  hewers  of  wood, 

Us  the  peasants,  brothers  of  the  peasant  of  Galilee— 

To  us  came  the  Comforter 

And  the  consolation  of  tongues  of  flame! 


218  THE  NEW  POETRY 


WEBSTER  FORD 

Do  you  remember,  O  Delphic  Apollo, 

The  sunset  hour  by  the  river,  when  Mickey  M'Grew 

Cried,  "There's  a  ghost,"  and  I,  "It's  Delphic  Apollo"; 

And  the  son  of  the  banker  derided  us,  saying,  "It's  light 

By  the  flags  at  the  water's  edge,  you  half-witted  fools." 

And  from  thence,  as  the  wearisome  years  rolled  on,  long  after 

Poor  Mickey  fell  down  in  the  water  tower  to  his  death, 

Down,  down,  through  bellowing  darkness,  I  carried 

The  vision  which  perished  with  him  like  a  rocket  which  falls 

And  quenches  its  light  in  earth,  and  hid  it  for  fear 

Of  the  son  of  the  banker,  calling  on  Plutus  to  save  me? 

Avenged  were  you  for  the  shame  of  a  fearful  heart, 

Who  left  me  alone  till  I  saw  you  again  in  an  hour 

When  I  seemed  to  be  turned  to  a  tree  with  trunk  and  branches 

Growing  indurate,  turning  to  stone,  yet  burgeoning 

In  laurel  leaves,  in  hosts  of  lambent  laurel, 

Quivering,  fluttering,  shrinking,  fighting  the  numbness 

Creeping  into  their  veins  from  the  dying  trunk  and  branches! 

'Tis  vain,  O  youth,  to  fly  the  call  of  Apollo. 

Fling  yourselves  in  the  fire,  die  with  a  song  of  spring, 

If  die  you  must  in  the  spring.    For  none  shall  look 

On  the  face  of  Apollo  and  live,  and  choose  you  must 

'Twixt  death  in  the  flame  and  death  after  years  of  sorrow, 

Rooted  fast  in  the  earth,  feeling  the  grisly  hand, 

Not  so  much  in  the  trunk  as  in  the  terrible  numbness 

Creeping  up  to  the  laurel  leaves  that  never  cease 

To  flourish  until  you  fall.    O  leaves  of  me 

Too  sere  for  coronal  wreaths,  and  fit  alone 

For  urns  of  memory,  treasured,  perhaps,  as  themes 

For  hearts  heroic,  fearless  singers  and  livers — 

Delphic  Apollo! 


EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS  219 


SILENCE 

I  have  known  the  silence  of  the  stars  and  of  the  sea, 

And  the  silence  of  the  city  when  it  pauses, 

And  the  silence  of  a  man  and  a  maid, 

And  the  silence  of  the  sick 

When  their  eyes  roam  about  the  room. 

And  I  ask:  For  the  depths 

Of  what  use  is  language? 

A  beast  of  the  field  moans  a  few  times 

When  death  takes  its  young. 

And  we  are  voiceless  in  the  presence  of  realities — 

We  cannot  speak. 

A  curious  boy  asks  an  old  soldier 
Sitting  in  front  of  the  grocery  store, 
"How  did  you  lose  your  leg?" 
And  the  old  soldier  is  struck  with  silence, 
Or  his  mind  flies  away 

Because  he  cannot  concentrate  it  on  Gettysburg. 
It  comes  back  jocosely 
And  he  says,  "A  bear  bit  it  off." 
And  the  boy  wonders,  while  the  old  soldier 
Dumbly,  feebly  lives  over 
The  flashes  of  guns,  the  thunder  of  cannon, 
The  shrieks  of  the  slain, 
And  himself  lying  on  the  ground, 
And  the  hospital  surgeons,  the  knives, 
And  the  long  days  in  bed. 
But  if  he  could  describe  it  all 
Tie  would  be~an  artist. 

Bufif  jjejwere  an^rtistjbherejvould  be^deeper  wounds 
"WhlcTThVcouid  not  desoiBeT" 


There  is  the  silence  of  a  great  hatred, 
And  the  silence  of  a  great  love, 


220  THE  NEW  POETRY 

.  And  the  silence  of  an  embittered  friendship. 
There  is  the  silence  of  a  spiritual  crisis, 
Through  which  your  soul,  exquisitely  tortured, 
Comes  with  visions  not  to  be  uttered 
Into  a  realm  of  higher  life. 
There  is  the  silence  of  defeat. 
There  is  the  silence  of  those  unjustly  punished; 
And  the  silence  of  the  dying  whose  hand 
Suddenly  grips  yours. 

There  is  the  silence  between  father  and  son, 
When  the  father  cannot  explain  his  life, 
Even  though  he  be  misunderstood  for  it.  , 

There  is  the  silence  that  comes  between  husband  and  wife. 

There  is  the  silence  of  those  who  have  failed; 

And  the  vast  silence  that  covers 

Broken  nations  and  vanquished  leaders. 

There  is  the  silence  of  Lincoln, 

Thinking  of  the  poverty  of  his  youth. 

And  the  silence  of  Napoleon 

After  Waterloo. 

And  the  silence  of  Jeanne  d'Arc 

Saying  amid  the  flames,  "Blessed  Jesus" —    , 

Revealing  in  two  words  all  sorrows,  all  hope. 

And  there  is  the  silence  of  age, 

Too  full  of  wisdom  for  the  tongue  to  utter  it 

In  words  intelligible  to  those  who  have  not  lived 

The  great  range  of  life. 

And  there  is  the  silence  of  the  dead. 

If  we  who  are  in  life  cannot  speak 

Of  profound  experiences, 

Why  do  you  marvel  that  the  dead 

Do  not  tell  you  of  death? 

Their  silence  shall  be  interpreted 

As  we  approach  them. 


ALICE  MEYNELL  22I 


Alice  Meynell 
MATERNITY 


One  wept  whose  only  child  was  dead 

New-born,  ten  years  ago. 
"Weep  not;  he  is  in  bliss,"  they  said. 

She  answered,  "Even  so. 

'  Ten  years  ago  was  born  in  pain 

A  child  not  now  forlorn. 
But  oh,  ten  years  ago,  in  vain 

A  mother,  a  mother  was  born." 


CHIMES 

Brief  on  a  flying  night, 

From  the  shaken  tower, 
A  flock  of  bells  take  flight, 

And  go  with  the  hour. 

Like  birds  from  the  cote  to  the  gales, 

Abrupt--oh,  hark!— 
A  fleet  of  bells  set  sails, 

And  go  to  the  dark. 

Sudden  the  cold  airs  swing: 

Alone,  aloud, 
A  verse  of  bells  takes  wing 

And  flies  with  the  cloud. 


222  THE  NEW  POETRY 


Max  Michelson 

O  BROTHER  TREE 

0  brother  tree!  0  brother  tree!  Tell  to  me,  thy  brother, 
The  secret  of  thy  life, 

The  wonder  of  thy  being. 

My  brother  tree,  my  brother  tree, 
My  heart  is  open  to  thee — 
Reveal  me  all  thy  secrets. 

Beloved  tree,  beloved  tree, 

1  have  shattered  all  my  pride. 
I  love  thee,  brother,  as  myself. 
Oh,  explain  to  me  thy  wonders. 

Beloved  one,  adored  one, 
I  will  not  babble  of  it  among  fools — 
I  will  tell  it  only  to  the  unspoiled: 
Reveal  to  me  thy  being. 

I  have  watched  thy  leaves  in  sunshine, 

I  have  heard  them  in  the  storm. 

My  heart  drank  a  droplet  of  thy  holy  joy  and  wonder, 

One  drop  from  the  ocean  of  thy  wonder. 

I  am  thy  humble  brother — I  am  thine  own. 
Reveal  thy  life  to  me, 
Reveal  thy  calm  joy  to  me, 
Reveal  to  me  thy  serene  knowledge. 


MAX  MICHELSON 


223 


THE  BIRD 

From  a  branch 
The  bird  called: 

I  hold  your  heart! 

I  wash  it 

And  scour  it 

With  bits  of  song 

Like  pebbles; 

And  your  doubts 

And  your  sorrows 

Fall — drip,  drip,  drip — 

Like  dirty  water. 

I  pipe  to  it 

In  little  notes 

Of  life  clear  as  a  pool, 

And  of  death 

Clearer  still; 

And  I  swoop  with  it 

In  the  blue 

And  in  the  nest 

Of  a  cloud. 


\ 


STORM 

Storm, 

Wild  one, 

Take  me  in  your  whirl, 

In  your  giddy  reel, 

In  your  shot-like  leaps  and  flights. 

Hear  me  call— stop  and  hear. 

I  know  you,  blusterer;  I  know  you,  wild  one — 

I  know  your  mysterious  call. 


224  THE  NEW  POETRY 


A  HYMN  TO  NIGHT 

Come,  mysterious  night; 
Descend  and  nestle  to  us. 

Descend  softly  on  the  houses 
We  built  with  pride, 
Without  worship. 
Fold  them  in  your  veil, 
Spill  your  shadows. 

Come  over  our  stores  and  factories, 
Hide  our  pride — our  shame — 
With  your  nebulous  wings. 

Come  down  on  our  cobbled  streets: 
Unleash  your  airy  hounds. 
Come  to  the  sleepers,  night; 
Light  in  them  yotir  fires. 

LOVE  LYRIC 

Stir- 
Shake  off  sleep. 

Your  eyes  are  the  soul  of  clear  waters — 
Pigeons 
In  a  city  street. 

Suns  now  dead 

Have  tucked  away  of  their  gold  for  your  hair: 

My  buried  mouth  still  tastes  their  fires. 

A  tender  god  built  your  breasts — 
Apples  of  desire; 

Their  whiteness  slakes  the  throat; 
Their  form  soothes  like  honey. 


EDNA  ST.  VINCENT  MILLAY  225 

Wake  up! 

Or  the  song-bird  in  my  heart 

Will  peck  open  the  shell  of  your  dreams. 


Sleep,  my  own, 
Soaring  over  rivers  of  fire. 
Sleep,  my  own, 
Wading  waters  of  gold. 

Joy  is  in  my  heart — 

It  flutters  around  in  my  soul. 

.  .  .  Softly— 

I  hear  the  rosy  dreams  .  .  . 


Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 

GOD'S  WORLD 

O  world,  I  cannot  hold  thee  close  enough! 

Thy  winds,  thy  wide  gray  skies! 

Thy  mists,  that  roll  and  rise! 

Thy  woods,  this  autumn  day,  that  ache  and  sag 

And  all  but  cry  with  color!    That  gaunt  crag 

To  crush!  To  lift  the  lean  of  that  black  bluff! 

World,  world,  I  cannot  get  thee  close  enough! 

Long  have  I  known  a  glory  in  it  all 

But  never  knew  I  this. 

Here  such  a  passion  is 

As  stretcheth  me  apart.    Lord,  I  do  fear 

Thou'st  made  the  world  too  beautiful  this  year. 

My  soul  is  all  but  out  of  me — let  fall 

No  burning  leaf;  prithee,  let  no  bird  call. 


226  THE  NEW  POETRY 


ASHES  OF  LIFE 

Love  has  gone  and  left  me,  and  the  days  are  all  alike. 

Eat  I  must,  and  sleep  I  will — and  would  that  night  were  here! 
But  ah,  to  lie  awake  and  hear  the  slow  hours  strike! 

Would  that  it  were  day  again,  with  twilight  near! 

Love  has  gone  and  left  me,  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do; 

This  or  that  or  what  you  will  is  all  the  same  to  me; 
But  all  the  things  that  I  begin  I  leave  before  I'm  through — 

There's  little  use  in  anything  as  far  as  I  can  see. 

Love  has  gone  and  left  me,  and  the  neighbors  knock  and  borrow, 
And  life  goes  on  forever  like  the  gnawing  of  a  mouse. 

And  to-morrow  and  to-morrow  and  to-morrow  and  to-morrow 
There's  this  little  street  and  this  little  house. 


THE  SHROUD 

Death,  I  say,  my  heart  is  bowed 

Unto  thine,  0  mother! 
This  red  gown  will  make  a  shroud 

Good  as  any  other. 

(I,  that  would  not  wait  to  wear 

My  own  bridal  things, 
In  a  dress  dark  as  my  hair 

Made  my  answerings. 

I,  to-night,  that  till  he  came 
Could  not,  could  not  wait, 

In  a  gown  as  bright  as  flame 
Held  for  them  the  gate.) 


HAROLD  MONRO  227 

Death,  I  say,  my  heart  is  bowed 

^nto  thine,  O  mother! 
This  red  gown  will  make  a  shroud 

Good  as  any  other. 


Harold  Monro 

GREAT  CITY 

When  I  returned  at  sunset, 
The  serving-maid  was  singing  softly 
Under  the  dark  stairs,  and  in  the  house 
Twilight  had  entered  like  a  moon-ray. 
Time  was  so  dead  I  could  not  understand 
The  meaning  of  midday  or  of  midnight, 
But  like  falling  waters,  falling,  hissing,  falling, 
Silence  seemed  an  everlasting  sound. 

I  sat  in  my  room, 

And  watched  sunset, 

And  saw  starlight. 

I  heard  the  tramp  of  homing  men, 

And  the  last  call  of  the  last  child; 

Then  a  lone  bird  twittered, 

And  suddenly,  beyond  the  housetops, 

I  imagined  dew  in  the  country, 

In  the  hay,  on  the  buttercups; 

The  rising  moon, 

The  scent  of  early  night, 

The  songs,  the  echoes, 

Dogs  barking, 

Day  closing, 

Gradual  slumber, 

Sweet  rest. 


228  THE  NEW  POETRY 

When  all  the  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  town 
I  passed  into  the  street  ways  and  I  watched, 
Wakeful,  almost  happy, 
And  half  the  night  I  wandered  in  the  street. 


YOUTH  IN  ARMS 

Happy  boy,  happy  boy, 
David  the  immortal-willed, 
Youth  a  thousand  thousand  times 
Slain,  but  not  once  killed, 
Swaggering  again  today 
In  the  old  contemptuous  way; 

Leaning  backward  from  your  thigh 
Up  against  the  tinselled  bar — 
Dust  and  ashes!  is  it  you? 
Laughing,  boasting,  there  you  are! 
First  we  hardly  recognized  you 
In  your  modern  avatar. 

Soldier,  rifle,  brown  khaki — 

Is  your  blood  as  happy  so? 

Where's  your  sling  or  painted  shield, 

Helmet,  pike  or  bow? 

Well,  you're  going  to  the  wars — 

That  is  all  you  need  to  know. 

Graybeards  plotted.    They  were  sad. 
Death  was  in  their  wrinkled  eyes. 
At  their  tables — with  their  maps, 
Plans  and  calculations — wise 
They  all  seemed;  for  well  they  knew 
How  ungrudgingly  Youth  dies. 


HAROLD  MONRO  229 

At  their  green  official  baize 
They  debated  all  the  night 
Plans  for  your  adventurous  days 
Which  you  followed  with  delight, 
Youth  in  all  your  wanderings, 
David  of  a  thousand  slings. 


THE  STRANGE  COMPANION 
A  Fragment 

That  strange  companion  came  on  shuffling  feet, 
Passed  me,  then  turned,  and  touched  my  arm. 

He  said  (and  he  was  melancholy, 
And  both  of  us  looked  fretfully, 
And  slowly  we  advanced  together), 
He  said:  "I  bring  you  your  inheritance." 

I  watched  his  eyes;  they  were  dim. 

I  doubted  him,  watched  him,  doubted  him  .  .  . 

But,  in  a  ceremonious  way, 

He  said:  "You  are  too  grey: 

Come,  you  must  be  merry  for  a  day. " 

And  I,  because  my  heart  was  dumb, 
Because  the  life  in  me  was  numb, 
Cried:  "I  will  come.    I  will  come." 

So,  without  another  word, 
We  two  jaunted  on  the  street. 
I  had  heard,  often  heard, 
The  shuffling  of  those  feet  of  his, 
The  shuffle  of  his  feet. 


230  THE  NEW  POETRY 

And  he  muttered  in  my  ear 
Such  a  wheezy  jest 
As  a  man  may  often  hear — 
Not  the  worst,  not  the  best 
That  a  man  may  hear. 


Then  he  murmured  in  my  face 

Something  that  was  true. 

He  said:  "I  have  known  this  long,  long  while, 

All  there  is  to  know  of  you." 

And  the  light  of  the  lamp  cut  a  strange  smile 

On  his  face,  and  we  muttered  along  the  street, 

Good  enough  friends,  on  the  usual  beat. 

We  lived  together  long,  long. 
We  were  always  alone,  he  and  I. 
We  never  smiled  with  each  other; 
We  were  like  brother  and  brother, 
Dimly  accustomed. 

Can  a  man  know 
Why  he  must  live,  or  where  he  should  go? 

He  brought  me  that  joke  or  two, 

And  we  roared  with  laughter,  for  want  of  a  smile, 

As  every  man  in  the  world  might  do. 

He  who  lies  all  night  in  bed 

Is  a  fool,  and  midnight  will  crush  his  head. 

When  he  threw  a  glass  of  wine  in  my  face 

One  night,  I  hit  him,  and  we  parted; 

But  in  a  short  space 

We  came  back  to  each  other  melancholy-hearted, 

Told  our  pain, 

Swore  we  would  not  part  again. 


HARRIET  MONROE  231 


One  night  we  turned  a  table  over 

The  body  of  some  slain  fool  to  cover, 

And  all  the  company  clapped  their  hands; 

So  we  spat  in  their  faces, 

And  travelled  away  to  other  lands. 

I  wish  for  every  man  he  find 

A  strange  companion  so 

Completely  to  his  mind 

With  whom  he  everywhere  may  go. 


Harriet  Monroe 

THE  HOTEL 

The  long  resounding  marble  corridors,  the  shining  parlors  with 

shining  women  in  them. 
The  French  room,  with  its  gilt  and  garlands  under  plump  little 

tumbling  painted  Loves. 
The  Turkish  room,  with  its  jumble  of  many  carpets  and  its  stiffly 

squared  un-Turkish  chairs. 
The  English  room,  all  heavy  crimson  and  gold,  with  spreading 

palms  lifted  high  in  round  green  tubs. 
The  electric  lights  in  twos  and  threes  and  hundreds,  made  into 

festoons  and  spirals  and  arabesques,  a  maze  and  magic  of 

bright  persistent  radiance. 

The  people  sitting  in  corners  by  twos  and  threes,  and  cooing  to- 
gether under  the  glare. 
The  long  rows  of  silent  people  in  chairs,  watching  with  eyes  that 

see  not  while  the  patient  band  tangles  the  air  with  music. 
The  bell-boys  marching  in  with  cards,  and  shouting  names  over 

and  over  into  ears  that  do  not  heed. 
The  stout  and  gorgeous  dowagers  in  lacy  white  and  lilac,  bedizened 

with  many  jewels,  with  smart  little  scarlet  or  azure  hats  on 

their  gray-streaked  hair. 


232  THE  NEW  POETRY 

The  business  men  in  trim  and  spotless  suits,  who  walk  in  and  out 
with  eager  steps,  or  sit  at  the  desks  and  tables,  or  watch  the 
shining  women. 

The  telephone  girls  forever  listening  to  far  voices,  with  the  silver 
band  over  their  hair  and  the  little  black  caps  obliterating  their 
ears. 

The  telegraph  tickers  sounding  their  perpetual  chit — chit-chit  from 
the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth. 

The  waiters,  in  black  swallow-tails  and  white  aprons,  passing  here 
and  there  with  trays  of  bottles  and  glasses. 

The  quiet  and  sumptuous  bar-room,  with  purplish  men  softly 
drinking  in  little  alcoves,  while  the  barkeeper,  mixing  bright 
liquors,  is  rapidly  plying  his  bottles. 

The  great  bedecked  and  gilded  cafe,  with  its  glitter  of  a  thousand 
mirrors,  with  its  little  white  tables  bearing  gluttonous  dishes 
whereto  bright  forks,  held  by  pampered  hands,  flicker  daintily 
back  and  forth. 

The  white-tiled,  immaculate  kitchen,  with  many  little  round  blue 
fires,  where  white-clad  cooks  are  making  spiced  and  flavored 
dishes. 

The  cool  cellars  filled  with  meats  and  fruits,  or  layered  with 
sealed  and  bottled  wines  mellowing  softly  in  the  dark- 
ness. 

The  invisible  stories  of  furnaces  and  machines,  burrowing  deep 
into  the  earth,  where  grimy  workmen  are  heavily  labor- 
ing. 

The  many-windowed  stories  of  little  homes  and  shelters  and 
sleeping-places,  reaching  up  into  the  night  like  some  miracu- 
lous, high-piled  honey-comb  of  wax-white  cells. 

The  clothes  inside  of  the  cells — the  stuffs,  the  silks,  the  laces;  the 
elaborate  delicate  disguises  that  wait  in  trunks  and  drawers 
and  closets,  or  bedrape  and  conceal  human  flesh. 

The  people  inside  of  the  clothes,  the  bodies  white  and  young, 
bodies  fat  and  bulging,  bodies  wrinkled  and  wan,  all  alike 
veiled  by  fine  fabrics,  sheltered  by  walls  and  roofs,  shut  in 
from  the  sun  and  stars. 


HARRIET  MONROE  233 


The  soul  inside  of  the  bodies — the  naked  souls;  souls  weazen  and 
weak,  or  proud  and  brave;  all  imprisoned  in  flesh,  wrapped 
in  woven  stuffs,  enclosed  in  thick  and  painted  masonry,  shut 
away  with  many  shadows  from  the  shining  truth. 

God  inside  of  the  souls,  God  veiled  and  wrapped  and  imprisoned 
and  shadowed  in  fold  on  fold  of  flesh  and  fabrics  and  mocker- 
ies; but  ever  alive,  struggling  and  rising  again,  seeking  the 
light,  freeing  the  world. 


THE  TURBINE 

To  W.  S.  M. 

Look  at  her — there  she  sits  upon  her  throne 

As  ladylike  and  quiet  as  a  nun! 

But  if  you  cross  her — whew!  her  thunderbolts 

Will  shake  the  earth!    She's  proud  as  any  queen, 

The  beauty — knows  her  royal  business  too, 

To  light  the  world,  and  does  it  night  by  night 

When  her  gay  lord,  the  sun,  gives  up  his  job. 

I  am  her  slave;  I  wake  and  watch  and  run 

From  dark  till  dawn  beside  her.    All  the  while 

She  hums  there  softly,  purring  with  delight 

Because  men  bring  the  riches  of  the  earth 

To  feed  her  hungry  fires.    I  do  her  will 

And  dare  not  disobey,  for  her  right  hand 

Is  power,  her  left  is  terror,  and  her  anger 

Is  havoc.    Look — if  I  but  lay  a  wire 

Across  the  terminals  of  yonder  switch 

She'll  burst  her  windings,  rip  her  casings  off, 

And  shriek  till  envious  Hell  shoots  up  its  flames, 

Shattering  her  very  throne.    And  all  her  people, 

The  laboring,  trampling,  dreaming  crowds  out  there — 

Fools  and  the  wise  who  look  to  her  for  light — 

Will  walk  in  darkness  through  the  liquid  night 

Submerged. 


234  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Sometimes  I  wonder  why  she  stoops 
To  be  my  friend — oh  yes,  who  talks  to  me 
And  sings  away  my  loneliness;  my  friend 
Though  I  am  trivial  and  she  sublime. 
Hard-hearted? — No,  tender  and  pitiful, 
As  all  the  great  are.    Every  arrogant  grief 
She  comforts  quietly,  and  all  my  joys 
Dance  to  her  measures  through  the  tolerant  night. 
She  talks  to  me,  tells  me  her  troubles  too, 
Just  as  I  tell  her  mine.    Perhaps  she  feels 
An  ache  deep  down — that  agonizing  stab 
Of  grit  grating  her  bearings;  then  her  voice 
Changes  its  tune,  it  wails  and  calls  to  me 
To  soothe  her  anguish,  and  I  run,  her  slave, 
Probe  like  a  surgeon  and  relieve  the  pain. 

We  have  our  jokes  too,  little  mockeries 
That  no  one  else  in  all  the  swarming  world 
Would  see  the  point  of.    She  will  laugh  at  me 
To  show  her  power:  maybe  her  carbon  packings 
Leak  steam,  and  I  run  madly  back  and  forth 
To  keep  the  infernal  fiends  from  breaking  loose: 
Suddenly  she  will  throttle  them  herself 
And  chuckle  softly,  far  above  me  there, 
At  my  alarms. 

But  there  are  moments — hush! — 
When  my  turn  comes;  her  slave  can  be  her  master, 
Conquering  her  he  serves.    For  she's  a  woman, 
Gets  bored  there  on  her  throne,  tired  of  herself, 
Tingles  with  power  that  turns  to  wantonness. 
Suddenly  something's  wrong — she  laughs  at  me, 
Bedevils  the  frail  wires  with  some  mad  caress 
That  thrills  blind  space,  calls  down  ten  thousand  lightnings 
To  ruin  her  pomp  and  set  her  spirit  free. 
Then  with  this  puny  hand,  swift  as  her  threat, 


HARRIET  MONROE  235 

Must  I  beat  back  the  chaos,  hold  in  leash 
Destructive  furies,  rescue  her — even  her — 
From  the  fierce  rashness  of  her  truant  mood, 
And  make  me  lord  of  far  and  near  a  moment, 
Startling  the  mystery.    Last  night  I  did  it — 
Alone  here  with  my  hand  upon  her  heart 
I  faced  the  mounting  fiends  and  whipped  them  down; 
And  never  a  wink  from  the  long  file  of  lamps 
Betrayed  her  to  the  world. 

So  there  she  sits, 

Mounted  6n  all  the  ages,  at  the  peak 
Of  time.    The  first  man  dreamed  of  light,  and  dug 
The  sodden  ignorance  away,  and  cursed 
The  darkness;  young  primeval  races  dragged 
Foundation  stones,  and  piled  into  the  void 
Rage  and  desire;  the  Greek  mounted  and  sang 
Promethean  songs  and  lit  a  signal  fire: 
The  Roman  bent  his  iron  will  to  forge 
Deep  furnaces;  slow  epochs  riveted 
With  hope  the  secret  chambers:  till  at  last 
We,  you  and  I,  this  living  age  of  ours, 
A  new-winged  Mercury,  out  of  the  skies 
Filch  the  wild  spirit  of  light,  and  chain  him  there 
To  do  her  will  forever. 

Look,  my  friend, 

Here  is  a  sign!    What  is  this  crystal  sphere — 
This  little  bulb  of  glass  I  lightly  lift, 
This  iridescent  bubble  a  child  might  blow 
Out  of  its  brazen  pipe  to  hold  the  sun — 
What  strange  toy  is  it?    In  my  hand  it  Kes 
Cold  and  inert,  its  puny  artery — 
That  curling  cobweb  film — ashen  and  dead. 
But  now — a  twist  or  two — let  it  but  touch 
The  hem,  far  trailing,  of  my  lady's  robe, 


236  THE  NEW  POETRY 

And  look,  the  burning  life-blood  of  the  stars 
Leaps  to  its  heart,  and  glows  against  the  dark, 
Kindling  the  world. 

Even  so  I  touch  her  garment, 
Her  servant  through  the  quiet  night;  and  thus 
I  lay  my  hand  upon  the  Pleiades 
And  feel  their  throb  of  fire.    Grandly  she  gives 
To  me  unworthy;  woman  inscrutable, 
Scatters  her  splendors  through  my  darkness,  leads  me 
Far  out  into  the  workshop  of  the  worlds. 
There  I  can  feel  those  infinite  energies 
Our  little  earth  just  gnaws  at  through  the  ether, 
And  see  the  light  our  sunshine  hides.    Out  there, 
Close  to  the  heart  of  life,  I  am  at  peace. 


ON  THE  PORCH 

As  I  lie  roofed  in,  screened  in, 

From  the  pattering  rain, 

The  summer  rain — 

As  I  He 

Snug  and  dry, 

And  hear  the  birds  complain: 

Oh,  billow  on  billow, 

Oh,  roar  on  roar, 

Over  me  wash 

The  seas  of  war. 

Over  me — down — down — 

Lunges  and  plunges 

The  huge  gun  with  its  one  blind  eye, 

The  armored  train, 

And,  swooping  out  of  the  sky, 

The  aeroplane. 


HARRIET  MONROE  237 

Down — down — 

The  army  proudly  swinging 

Under  gay  flags, 

The  glorious  dead  heaped  up  like  rags, 

A  church  with  bronze  bells  ringing, 

A  city  all  towers, 

Gardens  of  lovers  and  flowers, 

The  round  world  swinging 

In  the  light  of  the  sun: 

All  broken,  undone, 

All  down — under 

Black  surges  of  thunder  .  .  . 

Oh,  billow  on  billow 
Oh,  roar  on  roar, 
Over  me  wash 
The  seas  of  war  .  .  . 

As  I  lie  roofed  in,  screened  in, 

From  the  pattering  rain, 

The  summer  rain — 

As  I  lie 

Snug  and  dry, 

And  hear  the  birds  complain. 

THE  WONDER  OF  IT 

How  wild,  how  witch-like  weird  that  life  should  be! 
That  the  insensate  rock  dared  dream  of  me, 
And  take  to  bursting  out  and  burgeoning — 

Oh,  long  ago — yo  ho! — 

And  wearing  green!    How  stark  and  strange  a  thing 
That  life  should  be! 

Oh,  mystic  mad,  a  rigadoon  of  glee, 

That  dust  should  rise,  and  leap  alive,  and  flee 


238  THE  NEW  POETRY 

A-foot,  a-wing,  arid  shake  the  deeps  with  cries — 

Oh,  far  away — yo-hay! 

What  moony  masque,  what  arrogant  disguise 
That  life  should  be! 


THE  INNER  SILENCE 

Noises  that  strive  to  tear 

Earth's  mantle  soft  of  air 

And  break  upon  the  stillness  where  it  dwells: 

The  noise  of  battle  and  the  noise  of  prayer, 

The  cooing  noise  of  love  that  softly  tells 

Joy's  brevity,  the  brazen  noise  of  laughter — 

All  these  affront  me  not,  nor  echo  after 

Through  the  long  memories. 

They  may  not  enter  the  deep  chamber  where 

Forever  silence  is. 

Silence  more  soft  than  spring  hides  in  the  ground 

Beneath  her  budding  flowers; 

Silence  more  rich  than  ever  was  the  sound 

Of  harps  through  long  warm  hours. 

It's  like  a  hidden  vastness,  even  as  though 

Great  suns  might  there  beat  out  their  measures  slow, 

Nor  break  the  hush  mightier  than  they. 

There  do  I  dwell  eternally, 

There  where  no  thought  may  follow  me, 

Nor  stillest  dreams  whose  pinions  plume  the  way. 

LOVE  SONG 

I  love  my  life,  but  not  too  well 
To  give  it  to  thee  like  a  flower, 

So  it  may  pleasure  thee  to  dwell 
Deep  in  its  perfume  but  an  hour. 

I  love  my  life,  but  not  too  well. 


HARRIET  MONROE  239 

I  love  my  life,  but  not  too  well 

To  sing  it  note  by  note  away, 
So  to  thy  soul  the  song  may  tell 

The  beauty  of  the  desolate  day. 
I  love  my  life,  but  not  too  well. 

I  love  my  life  but  not  too  well 

To  cast  it  like  a  cloak  on  thine, 
Against  the  storms  that  sound  and  swell 

Between  thy  lonely  heart  and  mine. 
I  love  my  lif  e,  but  not  too  well. 


A  FAREWELL 

Good-by! — no,  do  not  grieve  that  it  is  over, 

The  perfect  hour; 
That  the  winged  joy,  sweet  honey-loving  rover, 

Flits  from  the  flower. 

Grieve  not — it  is  the  law.    Love  will  be  flying— 

Oh,  love  and  all. 
Glad  was  the  living — blessed  be  the  dying! 

Let  the  leaves  fall. 


LULLABY 

My  little  one,  sleep  softly 

Among  the  toys  and  flowers. 
Sleep  softly,  O  my  first-born  son, 

Through  all  the  long  dark  hours. 
And  if  you  waken  far  away 

I  shall  be  wandering  too. 
If  far  away  you  run  and  play 

My  heart  must  follow  you. 


240  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Sleep  softly,  O  my  baby, 

And  smile  down  in  your  sleep. 
Here  are  red  rose-buds  for  your  bed — 

Smile,  and  I  will  not  weep. 
We  made  our  pledge — you  did  not  fear 

To  go — why  then  should  I? 
Though  long  you  sleep,  I  shall  be  near; 

So  hush — we  must  not  cry. 

Sleep  softly,  dear  one,  softly — 

They  can  not  part  us  now; 
Forever  rest  here  on  my  breast, 

My  kiss  upon  your  brow. 
What  though  they  hide  a  little  grave 

With  dream-flowers  false  or  true? 
What  difference?    We  will  just  be  brave 

Together — I  and  you. 


PAIN 

She  heard  the  children  playing  in  the  sun, 

And  through  her  window  saw  the  white-stemmed  trees 

Sway  like  a  film  of  silver  in  the  breeze 

Under  the  purple  hills;  and  one  by  one 

She  noted  chairs  and  cabinets,  and  spun 

The  pattern  of  her  bed's  pale  draperies: 

Yet  all  the  while  she  knew  that  each  of  these 

Was  a  dull  lie,  in  irony  begun. 

For  down  in  hell  she  lay,  whose  livid  fires 

Love  may  not  quench,  whose  pangs  death  may  not  quell. 

The  round  immensity  of  earth  and  sky 

Shrank  to  a  point  that  speared  her.      Loves,  desires, 

Darkened  to  torturing  ministers  of  hell, 

Whose  mockery  of  joy  deepened  the  lie. 


HARRIET  MONROE  241 

Little  eternities  the  black  hours  were, 

That  no  beginning  knew,  that  knew  no  end. 

Day  waned,  and  night  came  like  a  faithless  friend, 

Bringing  no  joy;  till  slowly  over  her 

A  numbness  grew,  and  life  became  a  blur, 

A  silence,  an  oblivion,  a  dark  blend 

Of  dim  lost  agonies,  whose  downward  trend 

Led  into  time's  eternal  sepulchre. 

And  yet,  when,  after  aeons  infinite 

Of  dark  eclipse  she  woke — lo,  it  was  day! 

The  pictures  hung  upon  the  walls,  each  one; 

Under  the  same  rose-patterned  coverlet 

She  lay;  spring  was  still  young,  and  still  the  play 

Of  happy  children  sounded  in  the  sun. 


THE  WATER  OUZEL 

Little  brown  surf -bather  of  the  mountains! 

Spirit  of  foam,  lover  of  cataracts,  shaking  your  wings  in  falling 

waters! 

Have  you  no  fear  of  the  roar  and  rush  when  Nevada  plunges — 
Nevada,  the  shapely  dancer,  feeling  her  way  with  slim  white 

fingers? 

How  dare  you  dash  at  Yosemite  the  mighty — 
Tall,   white-limbed    Yosemite,   leaping   down,   down,   over   the 

cliff? 

Is  it  not  enough  to  lean  on  the  blue  air  of  mountains? 
Is  it  not  enough  to  rest  with  your  mate  at  timber-line,  in  bushes 

that  hug  the  rocks? 
Must  you  fly  through  mad  waters  where  the  heaped-up  granite 

breaks  them? 

Must  you  batter  your  wings  in  the  torrent? 
Must  you  plunge  for  life  or  death  through  the  foam? 


242  THE  NEW  POETRY 


THE  PINE  AT  TIMBER-LINE 

What  has  bent  you, 
Warped  and  twisted  you, 
Torn  and  crippled  you? — 
What  has  embittered  you, 
O  lonely  tree? 

You  search  the  rocks  for  a  footing, 

dragging  scrawny  roots; 
You  bare  your  thin  breast  to  the  storms, 

and  fling  out  wild  arms  behind  you; 
You  throw  back  your  witch-like  head, 

with  wisps  of  hair  stringing  the  wind. 

You  fight  with  the  snows, 

You  rail  and  shriek  at  the  tempests. 

Old  before  your  time,  you  challenge  the  cold  stars. 

Be  still,  be  satisfied! 

Stand  straight  like  your  brothers  in  the  valley, 

The  soft  green  valley  of  summer  down  below. 

Why  front  the  endless  winter  of  the  peak? 
Why  seize  the  lightning  in  your  riven  hands? 
Why  cut  the  driven  wind  and  shriek  aloud? 

Why  tarry  here? 


MOUNTAIN  SONG 

I  have  not  where  to  lay  my  head: 
Upon  my  breast  no  child  shall  lie; 

For  me  no  marriage  feast  is  spread: 
I  walk  alone  under  the  sky. 


JOHN  G.  NEIHARDT  243 

My  staff  and  scrip  I  cast  away — 

Light-burdened  to  the  mountain  height! 

Climbing  the  rocky  steep  by  day, 
Kindling  my  fire  against  the  night. 

The  bitter  hail  shall  flower  the  peak, 

The  icy  wind  shall  dry  my  tears. 
Strong  shall  I  be,  who  am  but  weak, 

When  bright  Orion  spears  my  fears. 

Under  the  horned  moon  I  shall  rise 

Up-swinging  on  the  scarf  of  dawn. 
The  sun,  searching  with  level  eyes, 

Shall  take  my  hand  and  lead  me  on. 

Wide  flaming  pinions  veil  the  West — 

Ah,  shall  I  find?  and  shall  I  know? 
My  feet  are  bound  upon  the  Quest — 

Over  the  Great  Divide  I  go. 


John  G.  Neihardt 

PRAYER  FOR  PAIN 

I  do  not  pray  for  peace  nor  ease, 

Nor  truce  from  sorrow: 
No  suppliant  on  servile  knees 

Begs  here  against  to-morrow! 

Lean  flame  against  lean  flame  we  flash, 

O  Fates  that  meet  me  fair; 
Blue  steel  against  blue  steel  we  clash — 

Lay  on,  and  I  shall  dare! 


244  THE  NEW  POETRY 

But  Thou  of  deeps  the  awful  Deep, 
Thou  Breather  in  the  clay, 

Grant  this  my  only  prayer — Oh,  keep 
My  soul  from  turning  gray! 

For  until  now,  whatever  wrought 
Against  my  sweet  desires, 

My  days  were  smitten  harps  strung  taut, 
My  nights  were  slumberous  lyres. 

And  howsoe'er  the  hard  blow  rang 

Upon  my  battered  shield, 
Some  lark-like,  soaring  spirit  sang 

Above  my  battle-field. 

And  through  my  soul  of  stormy  night 
The  zigzag  blue  flame  ran. 

I  asked  no  odds — I  fought  my  fight — 
Events  against  a  man. 

But  now — at  last — the  gray  mist  chokes 
And  numbs  me.    Leave  me  pain! 

Oh,  let  me  feel  the  biting  strokes, 
That  I  may  fight  again! 

ENVOI 

Oh,  seek  me  not  within  a  tomb — 
Thou  shalt  not  find  me  in  the  clay! 

I  pierce  a  little  wall  of  gloom 
To  mingle  with  the  day! 

I  brothered  with  the  things  that  pass, 
Poor  giddy  joy  and  puckered  grief; 

I  go  to  brother  with  the  grass 
And  with  the  sunning  leaf. 


YONE  NOGUCHI  245 

Not  death  can  sheathe  me  in  a  shroud; 

A  joy-sword  whetted  keen  with  pain, 
I  join  the  armies  of  the  cloud, 

The  lightning  and  the  rain. 

Oh,  subtle  in  the  sap  athrill, 

Athletic  in  the  glad  uplift, 
A  portion  of  the  cosmic  will, 

I  pierce  the  planet-drift. 

My  God  and  I  shall  interknit 

As  rain  and  ocean,  breath  and  air; 
And  oh,  the  luring  thought  of  it 

Is  prayer! 


Yone  Noguchi 

THE  POET 

Out  of  the  deep  and  the  dark, 

A  sparkling  mystery,  a  shape, 

Something  perfect, 

Comes  like  the  stir  of  the  day: 

One  whose  breath  is  an  odor, 

Whose  eyes  show  the  road  to  stars, 

The  breeze  in  his  face, 

The  glory  of  heaven  on  his  back. 

He  steps  like  a  vision  hung  in  air, 

Diffusing  the  passion  of  eternity; 

His  abode  is  the  sunlight  of  morn, 

The  music  of  eve  his  speech: 

In  his  sight, 

One  shall  turn  from  the  dust  of  the  grave, 

And  move  upward  to  the  woodland. 


246  THE  NEW  POETRY 


I  HAVE  CAST  THE  WORLD 

I  have  cast  the  world, 

and  think  me  as  nothing. 
Yet  I  feel  cold  on  snow-falling  day, 
And  happy  on  flower  day. 


Grace  Fallow  Norton 

ALLEGRA  AGONISTES 

A  gleam  of  gold  in  gloom  and  gray, 

A  call  from  out  a  fairer  day. 

O  pang  at  heart  and  ebbing  blood! 

(Hush,  bread  and  salt  should  be  thy  mood, 

Stern  woman  of  the  Brotherhood.) 

Clamor  of  golden  tones  and  tunes, 
Hunt  of  faint  horns,  breath  of  bassoons; 
They  wound  my  soul  again;  I  lie 
Face  earthward  in  fresh  agony. 
Oh,  give  me  joy  before  I  die! 

World,  world,  I  could  have  danced  for  thee, 
And  I  had  tales  and  minstrelsy; 
Kept  fairer,  I  had  been  more  good. 
(Hush,  bread  and  salt  should  be  thy  mood, 
Soul  of  the  breadless  Brotherhood.) 

Some  thou  hast  formed  to  play  thy  part, 
The  bold,  the  cold,  the  hard  of  heart. 
Thy  rue  upon  my  lips  I  toss. 
Rose  was  my  right.      O  world,  the  loss, 
When  Greek  limbs  writhe  upon  the  cross! 


GRACE  FALLOW  NORTON  247 


MAKE  NO  VOWS 

I  made  a  vow  once,  one  only. 

I  was  young  and  I  was  lonely. 

When  I  grew  strong  I  said:  "This  vow 

Is  too  narrow  for  me  now. 

Who  am  I  to  be  bound  by  old  oaths? 

I  will  change  them  as  I  change  my  clothes!" 

But  that  ancient  outworn  vow 
Was  like  fetters  upon  me  now. 
It  was  hard  to  break,  hard  to  break; 
Hard  to  shake  from  me,  hard  to  shake. 

I  broke  it  by  day,  but  it  closed  upon  me  at  night. 
He  is  not  free  who  is  free  only  in  the  sun-light. 
He  is  not  free  who  bears  fetters  in  his  dreams, 
Nor  he  who  laughs  only  by  dark  dream-fed  streams. 

Oh,  it  costs  much  bright  coin  of  strength  to  live! 
Watch,  then,  where  all  your  strength  you  give! 
For  I,  who  would  be  so  wild  and  wondrous  now, 
Must  give,  give,  to  break  a  burdening  bitter  vow. 


I  GIVE  THANKS 

There's  one  that  I  once  loved  so  much 

I  am  no  more  the  same. 
I  give  thanks  for  that  transforming  touch. 

I  tell  you  not  his  name. 

He  has  become  a  sign  to  me 

For  flowers  and  for  fire. 
For  song  he  is  a  sign  to  me 

And  for  the  broken  lyre. 


248  THE  NEW  POETRY 

And  I  have  known  him  in  a  book 
And  never  touched  his  hand. 

And  he  is  dead — I  need  not  look 
For  him  through  his  green  land. 

Heaven  may  not  be.    I  have  no  faith, 

But  this  desire  I  have — 
To  take  my  soul  on  my  last  breath, 

To  lift  it  like  a  wave, 

And  surge  unto  his  star  and  say, 
His  friendship  had  been  heaven; 

And  pray,  for  clouds  that  closed  his  day 
May  light  at  last  be  given! 

And  say,  he  shone  at  noon  so  bright 
I  learned  to  run  and  rejoice! 

And  beg  him  for  one  last  delight — 
The  true  sound  of  his  voice. 

There's  one  that  once  moved  me  so  much 

I  am  no  more  the  same; 
And  I  pray  I  too,  I  too,  may  touch 

Some  heart  with  singing  flame. 


James  Oppenheim 

THE  SLAVE 

They  set  the  slave  free,  striking  off  his  chains. 
Then  he  was  as  much  of  a  slave  as  ever. 

He  was  still  chained  to  servility, 

He  was  still  manacled  to  indolence  and  sloth, 

He  was  still  bound  by  fear  and  superstition, 


JAMES  OPPENHEIM  249 

By  ignorance,  suspicion,  and  savagery  .  .  . 
His  slavery  was  not  in  the  chains, 
But  in  himself  .  .  . 

They  can  only  set  free  men  free  .  .  . 
And  there  is  no  need  of  that: 
Free  men  set  themselves  free. 

THE  LONELY  CHILD 

Do  you  think,  my  boy,  when  I  put  my  arms  around  you 

To  still  your  fears, 

That  it  is  I  who  conquer  the  dark  and  the  lonely  night? 

My  arms  seem  to  wrap  love  about  you, 
As  your  little  heart  fluttering  at  my  breast 
Throbs  love  through  me  .  .  . 

But,  dear  one,  it  is  not  your  father: 
Other  arms  are  about  you,  drawing  you  near, 
And  drawing  the  Earth  near,  and  the  Night  near, 
And  your  father  near.  .  .  . 

Some  day  you  shall  lie  alone  at  nights, 

As  now  your  father  lies; 

And  in  those  arms,  as  a  leaf  fallen  on  a  tranquil  stream, 

Drift  into  dreams  and  healing  sleep. 

NOT  OVERLOOKED 

Though  I  am  little  as  all  little  things, 

Though  the  stars  that  pass  over  my  tininess  are  as  the  sands  of 

the  sea, 
Though  the  garment  of  the  night  was  made  for  a  sky-giant 

and  does  not  fit  me, 
Though  even  in  a  city  of  men  I  am  as  nothing, 


250  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Yet  at  times  the  gift  of  life  is  almost  more  than  I  can  bear.  .  .  . 
I  laugh  with  joyousness,  the  morning  is  a  blithe  holiday; 
And  in  the  overrunning  of  my  hardy  bliss  praise  rises  for  the 
very  breath  I  breathe. 

How  soaked  the  universe  is  with  life — 
Not  a  cranny  but  is  drenched! 
Ah,  not  even  I  was  overlooked! 

THE  RUNNER  IN  THE  SKIES 

Who  is  the  runner  in  the  skies, 
With  her  blowing  scarf  of  stars, 
And  our  earth  and  sun  hovering  like  bees  about  her  blossoming 

heart! 

Her  feet  are  on  the  winds  where  space  is  deep; 
Her  eyes  are  nebulous  and  veiled ; 
She  hurries  through  the  night  to  a  far  lover. 


Patrick  Orr 

ANNIE  SHORE  AND  JOHNNIE  BOON 

Annie  Shore,  'twas,  sang  last  night 

Down  in  South  End  saloon; 
A  tawdry  creature  in  the  light, 
Painted  cheeks,  eyes  over  bright, 
Singing  a  dance-hall  tune. 

I'd  be  forgetting  Annie's  singing — 

I'd  not  have  thought  again — 
But  for  the  thing  that  cried  and  fluttered 

Through  all  the  shrill  refrain: 
Youth  crying  above  foul  words,  cheap  music, 

And  innocence  in  pain. 


PATRICK  ORR  251 

They  sentenced  Johnnie  Boon  today 

For  murder,  stark  and  grim; 
Death's  none  too  dear  a  price,  they  say, 
For  such-like  men  as  him  to  pay; 

No  need  to  pity  him! 

And  Johnnie  Doon  I'd  not  be  pitying — 

I  could  forget  him  now — 
But  for  the  childish  look  of  trouble 

That  fell  across  his  brow, 
For  the  twisting  hands  he  looked  at  dumbly 

As  if  they'd  sinned,  he  knew  not  how. 

IN  THE  MOHAVE 

As  I  rode  down  .the  arroyo  through  yuccas  belled  with  bloom 
I  saw  a  last  year's  stalk  lift  dried  hands  to  the  light, 

Like  age  at  prayer  for  death  within  a  careless  room, 
Like  one  by  day  o'ertaken,  whose  sick  desire  is  night. 

And  as  I  rode  I  saw  a  lean  coyote  lying 

All  perfect  as  hi  life  upon  a  silver  dune, 
Save  that  his  feet  no  more  could  flee  the  harsh  light's  spying, 

Save  that  no  more  his  shadow  would  cleave  the  sinking  moon. 

O  cruel  land,  where  form  endures,  the  spirit  fled! 

You  chill  the  sun  for  me  with  your  gray  sphinx's  smile, 
Brooding  in  the  bright  silence  above  your  captive  dead, 

Where  beat  the  heart  of  life  so  brief,  so  brief  a  while! 


252  THE 'NEW  POETRY 


Seumas  O*  Sullivan 

MY  SORROW 

My  sorrow  that  I  am  not  by  the  little  dun, 

By  the  lake  of  the  starlings  at  Rosses  under  the  hill — 

And  the  larks  there,  singing  over  the  fields  of  dew, 

Or  evening  there,  and  the  sedges  still! 

For  plain  I  see  now  the  length  of  the  yellow  sand, 

And  Lissadell  far  off  and  its  leafy  ways, 

And  the  holy  mountain  whose  mighty  heart 

Gathers  into  it  all  the  colored  days. 

My  sorrow  that  I  am  not  by  the  little  dun, 

By  the  lake  of  the  starlings  at  evening  when  all  is  still — 

And  still  in  whispering  sedges  the  herons  stand. 

'Tis  there  I  would  nestle  at  rest  till  the  quivering  moon 

Uprose  in  the  golden  quiet  over  the  hill. 


SPLENDID  AND  TERRIBLE 

Splendid  and  terrible  your  love. 
The  searing  pinions  of  its  flight 
Flamed  but  a  moment's  space  above 
The  place  where  ancient  memories  keep 
Their  quiet;  and  the  dreaming  deep 
Moved  inly  with  a  troubled  light, 
And  that  old  passion  woke  and  stirred 
Out  of  its  sleep. 

Splendid  and  terrible  your  love. 
I  hold  it  to  me  like  a  flame; 
I  hold  it  like  a  flame  above 
The  empty  anguish  of  my  breast. 


SEUMAS  O'SULLIVAN 

There  let  it  stay,  there  let  it  rest- 
Deep  in  the  heart  whereto  it  came 
Of  old  as  some  wind-wearied  bird 
Drops  to  its  nest. 

THE  OTHERS 

From  our  hidden  places, 

By  a  secret  path, 
We  come  in  the  moonlight 

To  the  side  of  the  green  rath. 

There  the  night  through 
We  take  our  pleasure, 

Dancing  to  such  a  measure 
As  earth  never  knew. 


253 


To  dance  and  lilt 

And  song  without  a  name, 
So  sweetly  chanted 

'Twould  put  a  bird  to  shame. 

And  many  a  maiden 

Is  there,  of  mortal  birth, 
Her  young  eyes  laden 

With  dreams  of  earth. 

Music  so  piercing  wild 

And  forest-sweet  would  bring 
Silence  on  blackbirds  singing 

Their  best  in  the  ear  of  spring. 

And  many  a  youth  entranced 

Moves  slow  in  the  dreamy  round, 

His  brave  lost  feet  enchanted 
With  the  rhythm  of  faery  sound. 


254  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Oh,  many  a  thrush  and  blackbird 
Would  fall  to  the  dewy  ground, 

And  pine  away  in  silence 
For  envy  of  such  a  sound. 

So  the  night  through, 
In  our  sad  pleasure, 

We  dance  to  many  a  measure 
That  earth  never  knew. 


Josephine  Preston  Peabody 

CRADLE  SONG 
I 

Lord  Gabriel,  wilt  thou  not  rejoice 
When  at  last  a  little  boy's 

Cheek  lies  heavy  as  a  rose, 

And  his  eyelids  close? 

Gabriel,  when  that  hush  may  be, 
This  sweet  hand  all  needfully 

I'll  undo,  for  thee  alone, 

From  his  mother's  own. 

Then  the  far  blue  highways  paven 
With  the  burning  stars  of  heaven 

He  shall  gladden  with  the  sweet 

Hasting  of  his  feet — 

Feet  so  brightly  bare  and  cool, 
Leaping,  as  from  pool  to  pool; 

From  a  little  laughing  boy 

Splashing  rainbow  joy! 


JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODY  255 

Gabriel,  wilt  thou  understand 
How  to  keep  his  hovering  hand — 

Never  shut,  as  in  a  bond, 

From  the  bright  beyond? 

Nay,  but  though  it  cling  and  close 
Tightly  as  a  clinging  rose, 
Clasp  it  only  so — aright, 
Lest  his  heart  take  fright. 

(Dormi,  dormi,  tu; 

The  dusk  is  hung  with  blue.) 


Lord  Michael,  wilt  not  thou  rejoice 
When  at  last  a  little  boy's 

Heart,  a  shut-in  murmuring  bee, 

Turns  him  into  thee? 

Wilt  thou  heed  thine  armor  well — 
To  take  his  hand  from  Gabriel, 

So  his  radiant  cup  of  dream 

May  not  spill  a  gleam? 

He  will  take  thy  heart  in  thrall, 
Telling  o'er  thy  breastplate  all 

Colors,  in  his  bubbling  speech, 

With  his  hand  to  each. 

(Dormi,  dormi,  tu, 
Sapphire  is  the  blue', 
Pearl  and  beryl,  they  are  called, 
Chrysoprase  and  emerald, 
Sard  and  amethyst. 
Numbered  so,  and  kissed .) 


256  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Ah,  but  find  some  angel  word 
For  thy  sharp,  subduing  sword! 

Yea,  Lord  Michael,  make  no  doubt 

He  will  find  it  out: 

(Dormi,  dormi,  /«/) 
His  eyes  will  look  at  you. 


in 

Last,  a  little  morning  space, 
Lead  him  to  that  leafy  place 

Where  Our  Lady  sits  awake, 

For  all  mothers'  sake. 

Bosomed  with  the  Blessed  One, 
He  shall  mind  her  of  her  Son, 

Once  so  folded  from  all  harms, 

In  her  shrining  arms. 

(In  her  veil  of  blue, 
Dormi,  dormi,  tu.) 

So — and  fare  thee  well. 

Softly— Gabriel  .  .  . 
When  the  first  faint  red  shall  come, 
Bid  the  Day-star  lead  him  home — 

For  the  bright  world's  sake — 

To  my  heart,  awake. 


THE  CEDARS 

All  down  the  years  the  fragrance  came, 
The  mingled  fragrance,  with  a  flame, 
Of  cedars  breathing  in  the  sun, 
The  cedar-trees  of  Lebanon. 


EZRA  POUND  257 

O  thirst  of  song  in  bitter  air, 
And  hope,  wing-hurt  from  iron  care, 
What  balm  of  myrrh  and  honey,  won 
From  far-off  trees  of  Lebanon! 

Not  from  these  eyelids  yet  have  I 
Ever  beheld  that  early  sky. 
Why  do  they  call  me  through  the  sun? — 
Even  the  trees  of  Lebanon? 

A  SONG  OF  SOLOMON 

King  Solomon  was  the  wisest  man 

Of  all  that  have  been  kings. 
He  built  an  House  unto  the  Lord; 

And  he  sang  of  creeping  things. 

Of  creeping  things,  of  things  that  fly, 

Or  swim  within  the  seas; 
Of  the  little  weed  along  the  wall, 

And  of  the  cedar-trees. 

And  happier  he,  without  mistake, 

Than  all  men  since  alive. 
God's  House  he  built;  and  he  did  make 

A  thousand  songs  and  five. 


Ezra  Pound 


Be  in  me  as  the  eternal  moods 

of  the  bleak  wind,  and  not 

As  transient  things  are  — 

gaiety  of  flowers. 


258  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Have  me  in  the  strong  loneliness 

of  sunless  cliffs 
And  of  gray  waters. 

Let  the  gods  speak  softly  of  us 
In  days  hereafter, 

the  shadowy  flowers  of  Orcus 
Remember  thee. 


THE  RETURN 

See,  they  return;  ah,  see  the  tentative 

Movements,  and  the  slow  feet, 

The  trouble  in  the  pace  and  the  uncertain 

Wavering! 

See,  they  return,  one,  and  by  one, 
With  fear,  as  half-awakened; 
As  if  the  snow  should  hesitate 
And  murmur  in  the  wind, 

and  half  turn  back; 
These  were  the  "Wing'd-with-Awe," 

inviolable. 

Gods  of  that  winged  shoe! 
With  them  the  silver  hounds, 

sniffing  the  trace  of  air! 

Haie!    Haie! 

These  were  the  swift  to  harry; 
These  the  keen-scented; 
These  were  the  souls  of  blood. 

Slow  on  the  leash, 

pallid  the  leash-men! 


EZRA  POUND  259 


PICCADILLY 

Beautiful,  tragical  faces — 

Ye  that  were  whole,  and  are  so  sunken; 

And,  O  ye  vile,  ye  that  might  have  been  loved, 

That  are  so  sodden  and  drunken, 

Who  hath  forgotten  you? 

O  wistful,  fragile  faces,  few  out  of  many! 

The  crass,  the  coarse,  the  brazen, 

God  knows  I  cannot  pity  them,  perhaps,  as  I  should  do; 

But  oh,  ye  delicate,  wistful  faces, 

Who  hath  forgotten  you? 


N.  Y. 

My  City,  my  beloved,  my  white! 

Ah,  slender, 

Listen!  Listen  to  me,  and  I  will  breathe  into  thee  a  soul. 
Delicately  upon  the  reed,  attend  me! 

Now  do  I  know  that  I  am  mad, 

For  here  are  a  million  people  surly  with  traffic; 

This  is  no  maid. 

Neither  could  I  play  upon  any  reed  if  I  had  one. 

My  City,  my  beloved, 

Thou  art  a  maid  with  no  breasts, 

Thou  art  slender  as  a  silver  reed. 

Listen  to  me,  attend  me! 

And  I  will  breathe  into  thee  a  soul, 

And  thou  shalt  live  for  ev^r. 


26o  THE  NEW  POETRY 

THE  COMING  OF  WAR:  ACTAEON 

An  image  of  Lethe, 

and  the  fields 
Full  of  faint  light 

but  golden, 
Gray  cliffs, 

and  beneath  them 
A  sea 
Harsher  than  granite, 

unstill,  never  ceasing; 

High  forms 

with  the  movement  of  gods, 
Perilous  aspect; 

And  one  said: 
"ThisisActaeon." 

Actaeon  of  golden  greaves! 

Over  fair  meadows, 

Over  the  cool  face  of  that  field, 

Unstill,  ever  moving, 

Host  of  an  ancient  people, 

The  silent  cortege. 

THE  GARDEN 

En  robe  de  parade.    Samain 

Like  a  skein  of  loose  silk  blown  against  a  wall 

She  walks  by  the  railing  of  a  path  in  Kensington  Gardens, 

And  she  is  dying  piece-meal 

of  a  sort  of  emotional  anemia. 

And  round  about  there  is  a  rabble 

Of  the  filthy,  sturdy,  unkillable  infants  of  the  very  poor. 

They  shall  inherit  the  earth. 


EZRA  POUND  261 

In  her  is  the  end  of  breeding. 

Her  boredom  is  exquisite  and  excessive. 

She  would  like  some  one  to  speak  to  her, 
And  is  almost  afraid  that  I 

will  commit  that  indiscretion. 

ORTUS 

How  have  I  labored? 

How  have  I  not  labored 

To  bring  her  soul  to  birth, 

To  give  these  elements  a  name  and  a  centre! 

She  is  beautiful  as  the  sunlight,  and  as  fluid. 

She  has  no  name,  and  no  place. 

How  have  I  labored  to  bring  her  soul  into  separation; 

To  give  her  a  name  and  her  being! 

Surely  you  are  bound  and  entwined, 

You  are  mingled  with  the  elements  unborn; 

I  have  loved  a  stream  and  a  shadow. 

I  beseech  you  enter  your  life. 
I  beseech  you  learn  to  say  "I" 
When  I  question  you: 
For  you  are  no  part,  but  a  whole; 
No  portion,  but  a  being. 

THE  CHOICE 

It  is  true  that  you  say  the  gods  are  more  use  to  you  than  fairies, 
But  for  all  that  I  have  seen  you  on  a  high,  white,  noble  horse, 
Like  some  strange  queen  in  a  story. 

It  is  odd  that  you  should  be  covered  with  long  robes  and  trailing 
tendrils  and  flowers; 


262  THE  NEW  POETRY 

It  is  odd  that  you  should  be  changing  your  face  and  resembling 
some  other  woman  to  plague  me; 

It  is  odd  that  you  should  be  hiding  yourself  in  the  cloud  of  beau- 
tiful women,  who  do  not  concern  me. 

And  I,  who  follow  every  seed-leaf  upon  the  wind! 
They  will  say  that  I  deserve  this. 

THE  GARRET 

Come  let  us  pity  those  who  are  better  off  than  we  are. 
Come,  my  friend,  and  remember 

that  the  rich  have  butlers  and  no  friends, 
And  we  have  friends  and  no  butlers. 
Come  let  us  pity  the  married  and  the  unmarried. 

Dawn  enters  with  little  feet 

like  a  gilded  Pavlova, 
And  I  am  near  my  desire. 
Nor  has  life  in  it  aught  better 
Than  this  hour  of  clear  coolness, 

the  hour  of  waking  together. 

DANCE  FIGURE 

For  the  Marriage  in  Cana  of  Galilee 

Dark-eyed, 

0  woman  of  my  dreams, 
Ivory  sandaled, 

There  is  none  like  thee  among  the  dancers, 
None  with  swift  feet. 

1  have  not  found  thee  in  the  tents, 
In  the  broken  darkness. 

I  have  not  found  thee  at  the  well-head 
Among  the  women  with  pitchers. 


EZRA  POUND  263 

Thine  arms  are  as  a  young  sapling  under  the  bark; 
Thy  face  as  a  river  with  lights. 

White  as  an  almond  are  thy  shoulders; 
As  new  almonds  stripped  from  the  husk. 

They  guard  thee  not  with  eunuchs; 

Not  with  bars  of  copper. 

Gilt  turquoise  and  silver  are  in  the  place  of  thy  rest. 

A  brown  robe,  with  threads  of  gold  woven  in  patterns, 

hast  thou  gathered  about  thee, 
O  Nathat-Ikanaie,  "Tree-at-the-river." 

As  a  rillet  among  the  sedge  are  thy  hands  upon  me; 
Thy  ringers  a  frosted  stream. 

Thy  maidens  are  white  like  pebbles; 
Their  music  about  thee! 

There  is  none  like  thee  among  the  dancers; 
None  with  swift  feet. 


FROM  "NEAR  PfiRIGORD" 

Ed  eran  due  in  uno,  ed  uno  in  due.    Inferno,  XXV I II,  125. 

I  loved  a  woman.    The  stars  fell  from  heaven. 
And  always  our  two  natures  were  in  strife. 
Bewildering  spring,  and  by  the  Auvezere 
Poppies  and  day's  eyes  in  the  green  email 
Rose  over  us;  and  we  knew  all  that  stream, 
And  our  two  horses  had  traced  out  the  valleys; 
Knew  the  low  flooded  lands  squared  out  with  poplars, 
In  the  young  days  when  the  deep  sky  befriended. 


264  THE  NEW  POETRY 

And  great  wings  beat  above  us  in  the  twilight, 
And  the  great  wheels  in  heaven 
Bore  us  together  .  .  .  surging  .  .  .  and  apart  .  .  . 
Believing  we  should  meet  with  lips  and  hands. 

High,  high  and  sure  .  .  .  and  then  the  counterthrust: 

"Why  do  you  love  me?    Will  you  always  love  me? 

But  I  am  like  the  grass,  I  can  not  love  you." 

Or,  "Love,  and  I  love  and  love  you, 

And  hate  your  mind,  not  you,  your  soul,  your  hands." 

So  to  this  last  estrangement,  Tairiran! 

There  shut  up  in  his  castle,  Tairiran's, 

She  who  had  nor  ears  nor  tongue  save  in  her  hands, 

Gone — ah,  gone — untouched,  unreachable! 

She  who  could  never  live  save  through  one  person, 

She  who  could  never  speak  save  to  one  person, 

And  all  the  rest  of  her  a  shifting  change, 

A  broken  bundle  of  mirrors  .      .  ! 


AN  IMMORALITY 

Sing  we  for  love  and  idleness, 
Naught  else  is  worth  the  having. 

Though  I  have  been  in  many  a  land, 
There  is  naught  else  hi  living. 

And  I  would  rather  have  my  sweet, 
Though  rose-leaves  die  of  grieving, 

Than  do  high  deeds  in  Hungary 
To  pass  all  men's  believing. 


EZRA  POUND  265 


THE  STUDY  IN  AESTHETICS 

The  very  small  children  in  patched  clothing, 
Being  smitten  with  an  unusual  wisdom, 
Stopped  in  their  play  as  she  passed  them 
And  cried  up  from  their  cobbles: 

Guardal  A  hi,  guarda!  ck'e  b'ea! 

But  three  years  after  this 

I  heard  the  young  Dante,  whose  last  name  I  do  not  know — 
For  there  are,  in  Sirmione,  twenty-eight  young  Dantes  and  thirty- 
four  Catulli; 

And  there  had  been  a  great  catch  of  sardines, 
And  his  elders 

Were  packing  them  in  the  great  wooden  boxes 
For  the  market  in  Brescia,  and  he 
Leapt  about,  snatching  at  the  bright  fish 
And  getting  in  both  of  their  ways; 
And  in  vain  they  commanded  him  to  sta  fermo/ 
And  when  they  would  not  let  him  arrange 
The  fish  hi  the  boxes 

He  stroked  those  which  were  already  arranged, 
Murmuring  for  his  own  satisfaction 
This  identical  phrase: 
Ch'e  Vea. 

And  at  this  I  was  mildly  abashed. 

FURTHER  INSTRUCTIONS 

Come,  my  songs,  let  us  express  our  baser  passions. 
Let  us  express  our  envy  for  the  man  with  a  steady  job  and  no  worry 
about  the  future. 

You  are  very  idle,  my  songs; 

I  fear  you  will  come  to  a  bad  end. 


266  THE  NEW  POETRY 

You  stand  about  the  streets.    You  loiter  at  the  corners  and  bus- 
stops, 

You  do  next  to  nothing  at  all. 
You  do  not  even  express  our  inner  nobility; 
You  will  come  to  a  very  bad  end. 

And  I?    I  have  gone  half  cracked. 
I  have  talked  to  you  so  much 

that  I  almost  see  you  about  me, 
Insolent  little  beasts!    Shameless!    Devoid  of  clothing! 

But  you,  newest  song  of  the  lot, 

You  are  not  old  enough  to  have  done  much  mischief. 

I  will  get  you  a  green  coat  out  of  China 

With  dragons  worked  upon  it. 

I  will  get  you  the  scarlet  silk  trousers 

From  the  statue  of  the  infant  Christ  at  Santa  Maria  Novella; 

Lest  they  say  we  are  lacking  in  taste, 
Or  that  there  is  no  caste  in  this  family. 

VILLANELLE:  THE  PSYCHOLOGICAL  HOUR 


I  had  over-prepared  the  event — 

that  much  was  ominous. 

With  middle-aging  care 

I  had  laid  out  just  the  right  books, 

I  almost  turned  down  the  right  pages. 

Beauty  is  so  rare  a  thing  .  .  . 
So  few  drink  of  my  fountain. 

So  much  barren  regret! 
So  many  hours  wasted! 
And  now  I  watch  from  the  window 
rain,  wandering  busses. 


EZRA  POUND  267 

Their  little  cosmos  is  shaken — 

the  air  is  alive  with  that  fact. 
In  their  parts  of  the  city 

they  are  played  on  by  diverse  forces; 

I  had  over-prepared  the  event. 

Beauty  is  so  rare  a  thing  .  .  . 
So  few  drink  at  my  fountain. 

Two  friends:  a  breath  of  the  forest  .  .  . 
Friends?   Are  people  less  friends 

because  one  has  just,  at  last,  found  them? 

Twice  they  promised  to  come. 

"Between  the  night  and  morning?" 

Beauty  would  drink  of  my  mind. 
Youth  would  awhile  forget 

my  youth  is  gone  from  me. 
Youth  would  hear  speech  of  beauty. 


n 

("Speak  up!  You  have  danced  so  stiffly? 
Someone  admired  your  works, 
And  said  so  frankly. 

"Did  you  talk  like  a  fool, 

The  first  night? 

The  second  evening?" 

"But  they  promised  again: 

'Tomorrow  at  tea-time.'") 


268  THE  NEW  POETRY 

HI 

Now  the  third  day  is  here — 

no  word  from  either; 
No  word  from  her  nor  him, 
Only  another  man's  note: 

"Dear  Pound,  I  am  leaving  England." 


BALLAD  OF  THE  GOODLY  FERE 

Simon  Zelotes  speaketh  it  somewhile  after  the  Crucifixion. 

Ha'  we  lost  the  goodliest  fere  o'  all 
For  the  priests  and  the  gallows  tree? 
Aye  lover  he  was  of  brawny  men, 
O'  ships  and  the  open  sea. 

When  they  came  wi'  a  host  to  take  Our  Man 
His  smile  was  good  to  see, 
"First  let  these  go!"  quo'  our  Goodly  Fere, 
"Or  I'll  see  ye  damned,"  says  he. 

Aye  he  sent  us  out  through  the  crossed  high  spears 
And  the  scorn  of  his  laugh  rang  free, 
"Why  took  ye  not  me  when  I  walked  about 
Alone  in  the  town?"  says  he. 

Oh  we  drank  his  "Hale"  in  the  good  red  wine 
When  we  last  made  company. 
No  capon  priest  was  the  Goodly  Fere, 
But  a  man  o'  men  was  he. 

I  ha'  seen  him  drive  a  hundred  men 
Wi'  a  bundle  o'  cords  swung  free, 
That  they  took  the  high  and  holy  house 
For  their  pawn  and  treasury. 


EZRA  POUND  269 

They'll  no'  get  him  a'  in  a  book,  I  think, 
Though  they  write  it  cunningly; 
No  mouse  of  the  scrolls  was  the  Goodly  Fere 
But  aye  loved  the  open  sea. 

If  they  think  they  ha'  snared  our  Goodly  Fere 
They  are  fools  to  the  last  degree. 
"I'll  go  to  the  feast,"  quo'  our  Goodly  Fere, 
"Though  I  go  to  the  gallows  tree." 

"Ye  ha'  seen  me  heal  the  lame  and  blind, 
And  wake  the  dead, "  says  he. 
"Ye  shall  see  one  thing  to  master  all: 
'Tis  how  a  brave  man  dies  on  the  tree." 

A  son  of  God  was  the  Goodly  Fere 
That  bade  us  his  brothers  be. 
I  ha'  seen  him  cow  a  thousand  men. 
I  have  seen  him  upon  the  tree. 

He  cried  no  cry  when  they  drave  the  nails 
And  the  blood  gushed  hot  and  free. 
The  hounds  of  the  crimson  sky  gave  tongue, 
But  never  a  cry  cried  he. 

I  ha'  seen  him  cow  a  thousand  men 

On  the  hills  o'  Galilee. 

They  whined  as  he  walked  out  calm  between, 

Wi'  his  eyes  like  the  gray  o'  the  sea. 

Like  the  sea  that  brooks  no  voyaging, 
With  the  winds  unleashed  and  free, 
Like  the  sea  that  he  cowed  at  Genseret 
Wi'  twey  words  spoke  suddently. 


270  THE  NEW  POETRY 

A  master  of  men  was  the  Goodly  Fere, 
A  mate  of  the  wind  and  sea. 
If  they  think  they  ha'  slain  our  Goodly  Fere 
They  are  fools  eternally. 

I  ha'  seen  him  eat  o'  the  honey-comb 
Sin'  they  nailed  him  to  the  tree. 


BALLAD  FOR  GLOOM 

For  God,  our  God,  is  a  gallant  foe 
That  playeth  behind  the  veil. 

I  have  loved  my  God  as  a  child  at  heart 
That  seeketh  deep  bosoms  for  rest, 
I  have  loved  my  God  as  maid  to  man — 
But  lo,  this  thing  is  best: 

To  love  your  God  as  a  gallant  foe 

that  plays  behind  the  veil, 

To  meet  your  God  as  the  night  winds  meet 
beyond  Arcturus'  pale. 

I  have  played  with  God  for  a  woman, 
I  have  staked  with  my  God  for  truth, 
I  have  lost  to  my  God  as  a  man,  clear-eyed — 
His  dice  be  not  of  ruth. 

For  I  am  made  as  a  naked  blade, 
But  hear  ye  this  thing  in  sooth: 

Who  loseth  to  God  as  man  to  man 

Shall  win  at  the  turn  of  the  game. 
I  have  drawn  my  blade  where  the  lightnings  meet 

But  the  ending  is  the  same: 
Who  loseth  to  God  as  the  sword  blades  lose 

Shall  win  at  the  end  of  the  game. 


EZRA  POUND  271 


For  God,  our  God,  is  a  gallant  foe 

that  playeth  behind  the  veil. 

Whom  God  deigns  not  to  overthrow 

hath  need  of  triple  mail. 


LA  FRAISNE 

Scene:  The  Ash  Wood  of  Malvern 

For  I  was  a  gaunt,  grave  councillor, 
Being  in  all  things  wise,  and  very  old; 
But  I  have  put  aside  this  folly  and  the  cold 
That  old  age  weareth  for  a  cloak. 

I  was  quite  strong — at  least  they  said  so — 
The  young  men  at  the  sword-play; 
But  I  have  put  aside  this  folly,  being  gay 
In  another  fashion  that  more  suiteth  me. 

I  have  curled  mid  the  boles  of  the  ash  wood, 
I  have  hidden  my  face  where  the  oak 
Spread  his  leaves  over  me,  and  the  yoke 
Of  the  old  ways  of  men  have  I  cast  aside. 

By  the  still  pool  of  Mar-nan-otha 
Have  I  found  me  a  bride 
That  was  a  dog-wood  tree  some  syne. 
She  hath  called  me  from  mine  old  ways; 
She  hath  hushed  my  rancor  of  council, 
Bidding  me  praise 

Naught  but  the  wind  that  flutters  in  the  leaves'! 

She  hath  drawn  me  from  mine  old  ways, 

Till  men  say  that  I  am  mad; 

But  I  have  seen  the  sorrow  of  men,  and  am  glad, 


272  THE  NEW  POETRY 

For  I  know  that  the  wailing  and  bitterness  are  a  folly. 

And  I?    I  have  put  aside  all  folly  and  all  grief. 

I  wrapped  my  tears  in  an  ellum  leaf 

And  left  them  under  a  stone; 

And  now  men  call  me  mad  because  I  have  thrown 

All  folly  from  me,  putting  it  aside 

To  leave  the  old  barren  ways  of  men, 

Because  my  bride 

Is  a  pool  of  the  wood;  and 

Though  all  men  say  that  I  am  mad 

It  is  only  that  I  am  glad — 

Very  glad,  for  my  bride  hath  toward  me  a  great  love 

That  is  sweeter  than  the  love  of  women 

That  plague  and  burn  and  drive  one  away. 

Aie-e!    'Tis  true  that  I  am  gay, 
Quite  gay,  for  I  have  her  alone  here 
And  no  man  troubleth  us. 

Once  when  I  was  among  the  young  men  .  .  . 

And  they  said  I  was  quite  strong,  among  the  young  men 

Once  there  was  a  woman  .  .  . 

.  .  .  but  I  forget  ...  she  was  .  .  . 

...  I  hope  she  will  not  come  again. 

...  I  do  not  remember  .  .  . 

I  think  she  hurt  me  once,  but  .  .  . 

That  was  very  long  ago. 

I  do  not  like  to  remember  things  any  more. 

I  like  one  little  band  of  winds  that  blow 
In  the  ash  trees  here: 
For  we  are  quite  alone, 
Here  mid  the  ash  trees. 


EZRA  POUND  273 


THE  RIVER-MERCHANT'S  WIFE:  A  LETTER 

While  my  hair  was  still  cut  straight  across  my  forehead 

I  played  about  the  front  gate,  pulling  flowers. 

You  came  by  on  bamboo  stilts,  playing  horse; 

You  walked  about  my  seat,  playing  with  blue  plums. 

And  we  went  on  living  in  the  village  of  Chokan: 

Two  small  people,  without  dislike  or  suspicion. 

At  fourteen  I  married  My  Lord  you. 

I  never  laughed,  being  bashful. 

Lowering  my  head,  I  looked  at  the  wall. 

Called  to,  a  thousand  times,  I  never  looked  back. 

At  fifteen  I  stopped  scowling, 

I  desired  my  dust  to  be  mingled  with  yours 

Forever  and  forever,  and  forever. 

Why  should  I  climb  the  look-out? 

At  sixteen  you  departed, 

You  went  into  far  Ku-to-Yen,  by  the  river  of  swirling  eddies, 
And  you  have  been  gone  five  months. 
The  monkeys  make  sorrowful  noise  overhead. 
You  dragged  your  feet  when  you  went  out. 
By  the  gate  now,  the  moss  is  grown,  the  different  mosses, 
Too  deep  to  clear  them  away! 
The  leaves  fall  early  this  autumn,  in  wind. 
The  paired  butterflies  are  already  yellow  with  August 
Over  the  grass  in  the  west  garden— 
They  hurt  me. 
I  grow  older. 

If  you  are  coming  down  through  the  narrows  of  the  river, 
Please  let  me  know  beforehand, 
And  I  will  come  out  to  meet  you, 
As  far  as  Cho-fu-Sa. 

From  the  Chinese  of  Li  Po. 


274  THE  NEW  POETRY 


EXILE'S  LETTER 

From  the  Chinese  of  Li  Po,  usually  considered  the  greatest  poet  of  China: 
written  by  him  while  in  exile  about  760  A.  D.,  to  the  Hereditary  War-Coun- 
cillor of  Sho,  "  recollecting  former  companionship." 

So-Kin  of  Rakuho,  ancient  friend,  I  now  remember 
That  you  built  me  a  special  tavern, 
By  the  south  side  of  the  bridge  at  Ten-Shin. 
With  yellow  gold  and  white  jewels 

we  paid  for  the  songs  and  laughter, 
And  we  were  drunk  for  month  after  month, 

forgetting  the  kings  and  princes. 
Intelligent  men  came  drifting  in,  from  the  sea 

and  from  the  west  border, 
And  with  them,  and  with  you  especially, 

there  was  nothing  at  cross-purpose; 
And  they  made  nothing  of  sea-crossing 

or  of  mountain-crossing, 
If  only  they  could  be  of  that  fellowship. 
And  we  all  spoke  out  our  hearts  and  minds  .  .  . 

and  without  regret. 
And  then  I  was  sent  off  to  South  Wei, 

smothered  in  laurel  groves, 
And  you  to  the  north  of  Raku-hoku, 

Till  we  had  nothing  but  thoughts  and  memories  between  us. 
And  when  separation  had  come  to  its  worst 
We  met,  and  travelled  together  into  Sen-Go 
Through  all  the  thirty-six  folds  of  the  turning  and  twisting 

waters; 
Into  a  valley  of  a  thousand  bright  flowers  .  .  . 

that  was  the  first  valley, 
And  on  into  ten  thousand  valleys 

full  of  voices  and  pine-winds. 
With  silver  harness  and  reins  of  gold, 

prostrating  themselves  on  the  ground, 


EZRA  POUND  275 

Out  came  the  East-of-Kan  foreman  and  his  company; 

And  there  came  also  the  "True-man"  of  Shi-yo  to  meet  me, 

Playing  on  a  jewelled  mouth-organ. 

In  the  storied  houses  of  San-Ko  they  gave  us 

more  Sennin  music; 

Many  instruments,  like  the  sound  of  young  phoenix  broods. 
And  the  foreman  of  Kan-Chu,  drunk, 
Danced  because  his  long  sleeves 
Wouldn't  keep  still,  with  that  music  playing. 
And  I,  wrapped  in  brocade,  went  to  sleep  with  my  head  on  his 

lap, 
And  my  spirit  so  high  that  it  was  all  over  the  heavens. 

And  before  the  end  of  the  day  we  were  scattered  like  stars  or 
rain. 

I  had  to  be  off  to  So,  far  away  over  the  waters, 

You  back  to  your  river-bridge. 

And  your  father,  who  was  brave  as  a  leopard, 

Was  governor  in  Hei  Shu  and  put  down  the  barbarian  rabble. 

And  one  May  he  had  you  send  for  me,  despite  the  long  dis- 
tance; 

And  what  with  broken  wheels  and  so  on,  I  won't  say  it  wasn't 
hard  going  .  .  . 

Over  roads  twisted  like  sheep's  guts. 

And  I  was  still  going,  late  in  the  year, 

in  the  cutting  wind  from  the  north, 

And  thinking  how  little  you  cared  for  the  cost  .  .  . 
and  you  caring  enough  to  pay  it. 

Then  what  a  reception! 

Red  jade  cups,  food  well  set,  on  a  blue  jewelled  table; 

And  I  was  drunk,  and  had  no  thought  of  returning; 

And  you  would  walk  out  with  me  to  the  western  corner  of  the 
castle, 

To  the  dynastic  temple,  with  the  water  about  it  clear  as  blue 
jade, 

With  boats  floating,  and  the  sound  of  mouth-organs  and  drums, 


276  THE  NEW  POETRY 

With  ripples  like  dragon-scales  going  grass-green  on  the  water, 
Pleasure  lasting,  with  courtezans  going  and  coming  without 

hindrance, 

With  the  willow-flakes  falling  like  snow, 
And  the  vermilioned  girls  getting  drunk  about  sunset, 
And   the  waters  a  hundred  feet  deep  reflecting  green  eye- 
brows— 

Eyebrows  painted  green  are  a  fine  sight  in  young  moonlight, 
Gracefully  painted — and  the  girls  singing  back  at  each  other, 
Dancing  in  transparent  brocade, 
And  the  wind  lifting  the  song,  and  interrupting  it, 
Tossing  it  up  under  the  clouds. 

And  all  this  comes  to  an  end, 
And  is  not  again  to  be  met  with. 
I  went  up  to  the  court  for  examination, 
Tried  Layu's  luck,  offered  the  Choyu  song, 
And  got  no  promotion, 
And  went  back  to  the  East  Mountains  white-headed. 

And  once  again  we  met,  later,  at  the  South  Bridge  head. 
And  then  the  crowd  broke  up — you  went  north  to  San  palace. 
And  if  you  ask  how  I  regret  that  parting? 
It  is  like  the  flowers  falling  at  spring's  end, 

confused,  whirled  in  a  tangle. 

What  is  the  use  of  talking!    And  there  is  no  end  of  talking — 
There  is  no  end  of  things  in  the  heart. 

I  call  in  the  boy, 

Have  him  sit  on  his  knees  to  write  and  seal  this, 

And  I  send  it  a  thousand  miles,  thinking. 

(Translated  by  Ezra  Pound  from  the  notes  of  the  late  Ernest  Fenollosat 
and  the  decipherings  of  the  Professors  Mori  and  Araga.) 


JOHN  REED  277 


John  Reed 

SANGAR 

To  Lincoln  Steffens 

Somewhere  I  read  a  strange,  old,  rusty  tale 

Smelling  of  war;  most  curiously  named 

The  Mad  Recreant  Knight  of  the  West. 

Once,  you  have  read,  the  round  world  brimmed  with  hate, 

Stirred  and  revolted,  flashed  unceasingly 

Facets  of  cruel  splendor.    And  the  strong 

Harried  the  weak  .  .  . 

Long  past,  long  past,  praise  God, 
In  these  fair,  peaceful,  happy  days. 

The  Tale: 
Eastward  the  Huns  break  border, 

Surf  on  a  rotten  dyke; 
They  have  murdered  the  Eastern  Warder 

(His  head  on  a  pike). 
"Arm  thee,  arm  thee,  my  father! 

Swift  rides  the  Goddes-bane, 
And  the  high  nobles  gather 
On  the  plain!" 

"O  blind  world- wrath!"  cried  Sangar, 

"Greatly  I  killed  in  youth; 
I  dreamed  men  had  done  with  anger 

Through  Goddes  truth!" 
Smiled  the  boy  then  in  faint  scorn, 

Hard  with  the  battle-thrill; 
"Arm  thee,  loud  calls  the  war-horn 

And  shrill!" 


278  THE  NEW  POETRY 

He  has  bowed  to  the  voice  stentorian, 

Sick  with  thought  of  the  grave — 
He  has  called  for  his  battered  morion 

And  his  scarred  glaive. 
On  the  boy's  helm  a  glove 

Of  the  Duke's  daughter— 
In  his  eyes  splendor  of  love 

And  slaughter. 

Hideous  the  Hun  advances 

Like  a  sea- tide  on  sand; 
Unyielding,  the  haughty  lances 

Make  dauntless  stand. 
And  ever  amid  the  clangor, 

Butchering  Hun  and  Hun, 
With  sorrowful  face  rides  Sangar 

And  his  son.  . 


Broken  is  the  wild  invader 

(Sullied,  the  whole  world's  fountains); 
They  have  penned  the  murderous  raider 

With  his  back  to  the  mountains. 
Yet  though  what  had  been  mead 

Is  now  a  bloody  lake, 
Still  drink  swords  where  men  bleed, 

Nor  slake. 

Now  leaps  one  into  the  press — 

The  hell  'twixt  front  and  front— 
Sangar,  bloody  and  torn  of  dress 

(He  has  borne  the  brunt). 
"Hold!"  cries,  "Peace!  God's  peace! 

Heed  ye  what  Christus  says — " 
And  the  wild  battle  gave  surcease 

In  amaze. 


JOHN  REED  279 

"When  will  ye  cast  out  hate? 

Brothers — my  mad,  mad  brothers — 
Mercy,  ere  it  be  too  late, 

These  are  sons  of  your  mothers. 
For  sake  of  Him  who  died  on  Tree, 

Who  of  all  creatures,  loved  the  least — " 
"Blasphemer!  God  of  Battles,  He!" 

Cried  a  priest. 

"Peace!"  and  with  his  two  hands 

Has  broken  in  twain  his  glaive. 
Weaponless,  smiling  he  stands — 

(Coward  or  brave?) 
"Traitor!"  howls  one  rank,  "Think  ye 

The  Hun  be  our  brother?" 
And  "Fear  we  to  die,  craven,  think  ye?" 

The  other. 

Then  sprang  his  son  to  his  side, 

His  lips  with  slaver  were  wet, 
For  he  had  felt  how  men  died 

And  was  lustful  yet; 
(On  his  bent  helm  a  glove 

Of  the  Duke's  daughter, 
In  his  eyes  splendor  of  love 

And  slaughter) — 

Shouting,  "Father  no  more  of  mine! 

Shameful  old  man — abhorr'd, 
First  traitor  of  all  our  line!" 

Up  the  two-handed  sword. 
He  smote — fell  Sangar — and  then 

Screaming,  red,  the  boy  ran 
Straight  at  the  foe,  and  again 

Hell  began.  .  .  . 


28o  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Oh,  there  was  joy  in  Heaven  when  Sangar  came. 
Sweet  Mary  wept,  and  bathed  and  bound  his  wounds, 
And  God  the  Father  healed  him  of  despair, 
And  Jesus  gripped  his  hand,  and  laughed  and  laughed. 


Ernest  Rhys 

DAGONET'S  CANZONET 

A  queen  lived  in  the  South; 
And  music  was  her  mouth, 
And  sunshine  was  her  hair, 
By  day,  and  all  the  night 
The  drowsy  embers  there 
Remember 'd  still  the  light; 
My  soul,  was  she  not  fair! 

But  for  her  eyes — they  made 
An  iron  man  afraid; 
Like  sky-blue  pools  they  were, 
Watching  the  sky  that  knew 
Itself  transmuted  there 
Light  blue,  or  deeper  blue; 
My  soul,  was  she  not  fair! 

The  lifting  of  her  hands 
Made  laughter  in  the  lands 
Where  the  sun  is,  in  the  South: 
But  my  soul  learnt  sorrow  there 
In  the  secrets  of  her  mouth, 
Her  eyes,  her  hands,  her  hair: 
O  soul,  was  she  not  fair! 


ERNEST  RHYS  281 


A  SONG  OF  HAPPINESS 

Ah,  Happiness: 

Who  called  you  "Earandel"? 

(Winter-star,  I  think,  that  is); 

And  who  can  tell  the  lovely  curve 

By  which  you  seem  to  come,  then  swerve 

Before  you  reach  the  middle-earth? 

And  who  is  there  can  hold  your  wing, 

Or  bind  you  in  your  mirth, 

Or  win  you  with  a  least  caress, 

Or  tear,  or  kiss,  or  anything — 

Insensate  Happiness? 

Once  I  thought  to  have  you 
Fast  there  in  a  child: 
All  her  heart  she  gave  you, 
Yet  you  would  not  stay. 
Cruel,  and  careless, 
Not  half  reconciled, 
Pain  you  cannot  bear; 
When  her  yellow  hair 
Lay  matted,  every  tress; 
When  those  looks  of  hers, 
Were  no  longer  hers, 
You  went:  in  a  day 
She  wept  you  all  away. 

Once  I  thought  to  give 
You,  plighted,  holily — 
No  more  fugitive, 
Returning  like  the  sea: 
But  they  that  share  so  well 
Heaven  must  portion  Hell 
In  their  copartnery: 


282  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Care,  ill  fate,  ill  health, 
Came  we  know  not  how 
And  broke  our  commonwealth. 
Neither  has  you  now. 

Some  wait  you  on  the  road, 
Some  in  an  open  door 
Look  for  the  face  you  showed 
Once  there — no  more. 
You  never  wear  the  dress 
You  danced  in  yesterday; 
Yet,  seeming  gone,  you  stay, 
And  come  at  no  man's  call: 
Yet,  laid  for  burial, 
You  lift  up  from  the  dead 
Your  laughing,  spangled  head. 

Yes,  once  I  did  pursue 

You,  unpursuable; 

Loved,  longed  for,  hoped  for  you— 

Blue-eyed  and  morning  brow'd. 

Ah,  lovely  Happiness! 

Now  that  I  know  you  well, 

I  dare  not  speak  aloud 

Your  fond  name  hi  a  crowd; 

Nor  conjure  you  by  night, 

Nor  pray  at  morning-light, 

Nor  count  at  all  on  you: 

But,  at  a  stroke,  a  breath, 
After  the  fear  of  death, 
Or  bent  beneath  a  load; 
Yes,  ragged  in  the  dress, 
And  houseless  on  the  road, 
I  might  surprise  you  there. 
Yes:  who  of  us  shall  say 


EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON  283 

When  you  will  come,  or  where? 

Ask  children  at  their  play, 

The  leaves  upon  the  tree, 

The  ships  upon  the  sea, 

Or  old  men  who  survived, 

And  lived,  and  loved,  and  wived. 

Ask  sorrow  to  confess 

Your  sweet  improvidence, 

And  prodigal  expense 

And  cold  economy, 

Ah,  lovely  Happiness! 


Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 

THE  MASTER 

Lincoln  as  he  appeared  to  one  soon  after  the  Civil  War 

A  flying  word  from  here  and  there 

Had  sown  the  name  at  which  we  sneered, 

But  soon  the  name  was  everywhere, 

To  be  reviled  and  then  revered: 

A  presence  to  be  loved  and  feared, 

We  cannot  hide  it,  or  deny 

That  we,  the  gentlemen  who  jeered, 

May  be  forgotten  by  and  by. 

He  came  when  days  were  perilous 
And  hearts  of  men  were  sore  beguiled, 
And  having  made  his  note  of  us, 
He  pondered  and  was  reconciled. 
Was  ever  master  yet  so  mild 
As  he,  and  so  untamable? 
We  doubted,  even  when  he  smiled, 
Not  knowing  what  he  knew  so  well. 


284  THE  NEW  POETRY 

He  knew  that  undeceiving  fate 

Would  shame  us  whom  he  served  unsought; 

He  knew  that  he  must  wince  and  wait — 

The  jest  of  those  for  whom  he  fought; 

He  knew  devoutly  what  he  thought 

Of  us  and  of  our  ridicule; 

He  knew  that  we  must  all  be  taught 

Like  little  children  in  a  school. 

We  gave  a  glamour  to  the  task 

That  he  encountered  and  saw  through; 

But  little  of  us  did  he  ask, 

And  little  did  we  ever  do. 

And  what  appears  if  we  review 

The  season  when  we  railed  and  chaffed? — 

It  is  the  face  of  one  who  knew 

That  we  were  learning  while  we  laughed. 

The  face  that  in  our  vision  feels 
Again  the  venom  that  we  flung, 
Transfigured,  to  the  world  reveals 
The  vigilance  to  which  we  clung. 
Shrewd,  hallowed,  harassed,  and  among 
The  mysteries  that  are  untold — 
The  face  we  see  was  never  young, 
Nor  could  it  ever  have  been  old. 

For  he,  to  whom  we  had  applied 
Our  shopman's  test  of  age  and  worth, 
Was  elemental  when  he  died, 
As  he  was  ancient  at  his  birth: 
The  saddest  among  kings  of  earth, 
Bowed  with  a  galling  crown,  this  man 
Met  rancor  with  a  cryptic  mirth, 
Laconic — and  Olympian. 


EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON  285 

The  love,  the  grandeur,  and  the  fame 
Are  bounded  by  the  world  alone; 
The  calm,  the  smouldering,  and  the  flame 
Of  awful  patience  were  his  own: 
With  him  they  are  forever  flown 
Past  all  our  fond  self-shadowings, 
Wherewith  we  cumber  the  Unknown 
As  with  inept,  Icarian  wings. 

For  we  were  not  as  other  men: 
'Twas  ours  to  soar  and  his  to  see. 
But  we  are  coming  down  again, 
And  we  shall  come  down  pleasantly; 
Nor  shall  we  longer  disagree 
On  what  it  is  to  be  sublime, 
But  flourish  in  our  perigee 
And  have  one  Titan  at  a  time. 


JOHN  GORHAM 

"Tell  me  what  you're  doing  over  here,  John  Gorham — 
Sighing  hard  and  seeming  to  be  sorry  when  you're  not. 
Make  me  laugh  or  let  me  go  now,  for  long  faces  in  the  moonlight 
Are  a  sign  for  me  to  say  again  a  word  that  you  forgot." 

"I'm  over  here  to  tell  you  what  the  moon  already 
May  have  said  or  maybe  shouted  ever  since  a  year  ago; 
I'm  over  here  to  tell  you  what  you  are,  Jane  Wayland, 
And  to  make  you  rather  sorry,  I  should  say,  for  being  so." 

"Tell  me  what  you're  saying  to  me  now,  John  Gorham, 

Or  you'll  never  see  as  much  of  me  as  ribbons  any  more; 

I'll  vanish  in  as  many  ways  as  I  have  toes  and  fingers, 

And  you'll  not  follow  far  for  one  where  flocks  have  been  before." 


286  THE  NEW  POETRY 

"I'm  sorry  now  you  never  saw  the  flocks,  Jane  Way  land; 
But  you're  the  one  to  make  of  them  as  many  as  you  need. 
And  then  about  the  vanishing:  it's  I  who  mean  to  vanish; 
And  when  I'm  here  no  longer  you'll  be  done  with  me  indeed." 

"That's  a  way  to  tell  me  what  I  am,  John  Gorham! 
How  am  I  to  know  myself  until  I  make  you  smile? 
Try  to  look  as  if  the  moon  were  making  faces  at  you, 
And  a  little  more  as  if  you  meant  to  stay  a  little  while." 

"You  are  what  it  is  that  over  rose-blown  gardens 
Makes  a  pretty  flutter  for  a  season  in  the  sun. 
You  are  what  it  is  that  with  a  mouse,  Jane  Wayland, 
Catches  him  and  let's  him  go  and  eats  him  up  for  fun." 

"Sure  I  never  took  you  for  a  mouse,  John  Gorham. 
All  you  say  is  easy,  but  so  far  from  being  true 
That  I  wish  you  wouldn't  ever  be  again  the  one  to  think  so; 
For  it  isn't  cats  and  butterflies  that  I  would  be  to  you." 

"All  your  little  animals  are  in  one  picture — 

One  I've  had  before  me  since  a  year  ago  to-night; 

And  the  picture  where  they  live  will  be  of  you,  Jane  Wayland, 

Till  you  find  a  way  to  kill  them  or  to  keep  them  out  of  sight." 

"Won't  you  ever  see  me  as  I  am,  John  Gorham, 

Leaving  out  the  foolishness  and  all  I  never  meant? 

Somewhere  in  me  there's  a  woman,  if  you  know  the  way  to  find 

her— 
Will  you  like  me  any  better  if  I  prove  it  and  repent?" 

"I  doubt  if  I  shall  ever  have  the  tune,  Jane  Wayland; 
And  I  dare  say  all  this  moonlight  lying  round  us  might  as  well 
Fall  for  nothing  on  the  shards  of  broken  urns  that  are  forgotten, 
As  on  two  that  have  no  longer  much  of  anything  to  tell." 


EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON  287 


RICHARD   CORY 

Whenever  Richard  Cory  went  down  town, 
We  people  on  the  pavement  looked  at  him: 

He  was  a  gentleman  from  sole  to  crown, 
Clean  favored,  and  imperially  slim. 

And  he  was  always  quietly  arrayed, 

And  he  was  always  human  when  he  talked; 

But  still  he  fluttered  pulses  when  he  said, 

"Good-morning,"  and  he  glittered  when  he  walked. 

And  he  was  rich — yes,  richer  than  a  king, 
And  admirably  schooled  in  every  grace: 

In  fine,  we  thought  that  he  was  everything 
To  make  us  wish  that  we  were  in  his  place. 

So  on  we  worked,  and  waited  for  the  light, 
And  went  without  the  meat,  and  cursed  the  bread; 

And  Richard  Cory,  one  calm  summer  night, 
Went  home  and  put  a  bullet  through  his  head. 


THE  GROWTH  OF  LORRAINE 


While  I  stood  listening,  discreetly  dumb, 
Lorraine  was  having  the  last  word  with  me: 
"I  know,"  she  said,  "I  know  it,  but  you  see 
Some  creatures  are  born  fortunate,  and  some 
Are  born  to  be  found  out  and  overcome — 
Born  to  be  slaves,  to  let  the  rest  go  free; 
And  if  I'm  one  of  them  (and  I  must  be) 
You  may  as  well  forget  me  and  go  home. 


288  THE  NEW  POETRY 

"You  tell  me  not  to  say  these  things,  I  know, 

But  I  should  never  try  to  be  content: 

I've  gone  too  far;  the  life  would  be  too  slow. 

Some  could  have  done  it — some  girls  have  the  stuff; 

But  I  can't  do  it — I  don't  know  enough. 

I'm  going  to  the  devil."    And  she  went. 

n 

I  did  not  half  believe  her  when  she  said 
That  I  should  never  hear  from  her  again; 
Nor  when  I  found  a  letter  from  Lorraine, 
Was  I  surprised  or  grieved  at  what  I  read: 
"Dear  friend,  when  you  find  this,  I  shall  be  dead. 
You  are  too  far  away  to  make  me  stop. 
They  say  that  one  drop — think  of  it,  one  drop! — 
Will  be  enough;  but  I'll  take  five  instead. 

"You  do  not  frown  because  I  call  you  friend; 
For  I  would  have  you  glad  that  I  still  keep 
Your  memory,  and  even  at  the  end — 
Impenitent,  sick,  shattered — cannot  curse 
The  love  that  flings,  for  better  or  for  worse, 
This  worn-out,  cast-out  flesh  of  mine  to  sleep." 


CASSANDRA 

I  heard  one  who  said:  "Verily, 
What  word  have  I  for  children  here? 

Your  Dollar  is  your  only  Word, 
The  wrath  of  it  your  only  fear. 

"You  build  it  altars  tall  enough 
To  make  you  see,  but  you  are  blind; 

You  cannot  leave  it  long  enough 
To  look  before  you  or  behind. 


EDWARD  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON  289 

"When  Reason  beckons  you  to  pause, 
You  laugh  and  say  that  you  know  best; 

But  what  it  is  you  know,  you  keep 
As  dark  as  ingots  in  a  chest. 


"You  laugh  and  answer,  'We  are  young; 

Oh,  leave  us  now,  and  let  us  grow:' 
Not  asking  how  much  more  of  this 

Will  Time  endure  or  Fate  bestow. 

"Because  a  few  complacent  years 
Have  made  your  peril  of  your  pride, 

Think  you  that  you  are  to  go  on 
Forever  pampered  and  untried? 

"What  lost  eclipse  of  history, 
What  bivouac  of  the  marching  stars, 

Has  given  the  sign  for  you  to  see 
Millenniums  and  last  great  wars? 

"What  unrecorded  overthrow 
Of  all  the  world  has  ever  known, 

Or  ever  been,  has  made  itself 
So  plain  to  you,  and  you  alone? 

"Your  Dollar,  Dove  and  Eagle  make 

A  Trinity  that  even  you 
Rate  higher  than  you  rate  yourselves; 

It  pays,  it  flatters,  and  it's  new. 

"And  though  your  very  flesh  and  blood 
Be  what  your  Eagle  eats  and  drinks, 

You'll  praise  him  for  the  best  of  birds, 
Not  knowing  what  the  Eagle  thinks. 


2QO  THE  NEW  POETRY 

"The  power  is  yours,  but  not  the  sight; 

You  see  not  upon  what  you  tread; 
You  have  the  ages  for  your  guide, 

But  not  the  wisdom  to  be  led. 


"Think  you  to  tread  forever  down 

The  merciless  old  verities? 
And  are  you  never  to  have  eyes 

To  see  the  world  for  what  it  is? 

"Are  you  to  pay  for  what  you  have 
With  all  you  are?  " — No  other  word 

We  caught,  but  with  a  laughing  crowd 
Moved  on.    None  heeded,  and  few  heard. 


Carl  Sandburg 

CHICAGO 

Hog-Butcher  for  the  World, 

Tool-maker,  Stacker  of  Wheat, 

Player  with  Railroads  and  the  Nation's  Freight-handler; 

Stormy,  husky,  brawling, 

City  of  the  Big  Shoulders: 

They  tell  me  you  are  wicked  and  I  believe  them,  for  I  have  seen 

your  painted  women  under  the  gas  lamps  luring  the  farm 

boys. 
And  they  tell  me  you  are  crooked,  and  I  answer,  Yes,  it  is  true 

I  have  seen  the  gunman  kill  and  go  free  to  kill  again. 
And  they  tell  me  you  are  brutal  and  my  reply  is,  On  the  faces 

of  women  and  children  I  have  seen  the  marks  of  wanton 

hunger. 


CARL  SANDBURG  291 

And  having  answered  so  I  turn  once  more  to  those  who  sneer  at 

this  my  city,  and  I  give  them  back  the  sneer  and  say  to 

them: 
Come  and  show  me  another  city  with  lifted  head  singing  so  proud 

to  be  alive  and  coarse  and  strong  and  cunning. 
•  Flinging  magnetic  curses  amid  the  toil  of  piling  job  on  job,  here  is 

a  tall  bold  slugger  set  vivid  against  the  little  soft  cities; 
/  Fierce  as  a  dog  with  tongue  lapping  for  action,  cunning  as  a  savage 

pitted  against  the  wilderness, 

Bareheaded, 

Shoveling, 

Wrecking, 

Planning, 

Building,  breaking,  rebuilding, 
Under  the  smoke,  dust  all  over  his  mouth,  laughing  with  white 

teeth, 
Under  the  terrible  burden  of  destiny  laughing  as  a  young  man 

laughs, 
Laughing  even  as  an  ignorant  fighter  laughs  who  has  never  lost  a 

battle, 
Bragging  and  laughing  that  under  his  wrist  is  the  pulse,  and  under 

his  ribs  the  heart  of  the  people, 

Laughing! 

Laughing  the  stormy,  husky,  brawling  laughter  of  youth;  half- 
naked,   sweating,   proud   to   be   Hog-butcher,   Tool-maker, 

Stacker  of  Wheat,  Player  with  Railroads,  and  Freight-handler 

to  the  Nation. 


THE  HARBOR 

Passing  through  huddled  and  ugly  walls, 
By  doorways  where  women  haggard 
Looked  from  their  hunger-deep  eyes, 
Haunted  with  shadows  of  hunger-hands, 
Out  from  the  huddled  and  ugly  walls, 


292  THE  NEW  POETRY 

I  came  sudden,  at  the  city's  edge, 

On  a  blue  burst  of  lake, 

Long  lake  waves  breaking  under  the  sun 

On  a  spray-flung  curve  of  shore; 

And  a  fluttering  storm  of  gulls, 

Masses  of  great  gray  wings 

And  flying  white  bellies 

Veering  and  wheeling  free  in  the  open. 


SKETCH 

The  shadows  of  the  ships 

Rock  on  the  crest 

In  the  low  blue  lustre 

Of  the  tardy  and  the  soft  mrolling  tide. 

A  long  brown  bar  at  the  dip  of  the  sky 
Puts  an  arm  of  sand  in  the  span  of  salt. 

The  lucid  and  endless  wrinkles 
Draw  in,  lapse  and  withdraw. 
Wavelets  crumble  and  white  spent  bubbles 
Wash  on  the  floor  of  the  beach. 

Rocking  on  the  crest 

In  the  low  blue  lustre 

Are  the  shadows  of  the  ships. 


LOST 

Desolate  and  lone 
All  night  long  on  the  lake 
Where  fog  trails  and  mist  creeps, 
The  whistle  of  a  boat 


CARL  SANDBURG  293 

Calls  and  cries  unendingly,     *^ 
Like  some  lost  child 
In  tears  and  trouble 
Hunting  the  harbor's  breast 
And  the  harbor's  eyes. 

JAN  KUBELIK 

Your  bow  swept  over  a  string,  and  a  long  low  note  quivered  to 

the  air. 
(A  mother  of  Bohemia  sobs  over  a  new  child,  perfect,  learning  to 

suck  milk.) 

Your  bow  ran  fast  over  all  the  high  strings  fluttering  and  wild. 
(All  the  girls  in  Bohemia  are  laughing  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  in 
the  hills  with  their  lovers.) 

AT  A  WINDOW 

Give  me  hunger, 

O  you  gods  that  sit  and  give 

The  world  its  orders. 

Give  me  hunger,  pain  and  want, 

Shut  me  out  with  shame  and  failure 

From  your  doors  of  gold  and  fame, 

Give  me  your  shabbiest,  weariest  hunger! 

But  leave  me  a  little  love, 
A  voice  to  speak  to  me  in  the  day  end, 
A  hand  to  touch  me  in  the  dark  room 
Breaking  the  long  loneliness. 

In  the  dusk  of  day-shapes 

Blurring  the  sunset, 

One  little  wandering,  western  star 


294  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Thrust  out  from  the  changing  shores  of  shadow. 

Let  me  go  to  the  window, 

Watch  there  the  day-shapes  of  dusk, 

And  wait  and  know  the  coming 

Of  a  little  love. 


THE  POOR 

Among  the  mountains  I  wandered  and  saw  blue  haze  and  red  crag 

and  was  amazed; 

On  the  beach  where  the  long  push  under  the  endless  tide  maneu- 
vers, I  stood  silent; 
Under  the  stars  on  the  prairie  watching  the  Dipper  slant  over  the 

horizon's  grass,  I  was  full  of  thoughts. 
Great  men,  pageants  of  war  and  labor,  soldiers  and  workers, 

mothers  lifting  their  children — these  all  I  touched,  and  felt 

the  solemn  thrill  of  them. 
And  then  one  day  I  got  a  true  look  at  the  Poor,  millions  of  the  Poor, 

patient  and  toiling;  more  patient  than  crags,  tides,  and  stars; 

innumerable,  patient  as  the  darkness  of  night — and  all  broken, 

humble  ruins  of  nations. 


THE  ROAD  AND  THE  END 

I  shall  foot  it 

Down  the  roadway  in  the  dusk, 
Where  shapes  of  hunger  wander 
And  the  fugitives  of  pain  go  by. 

I  shall  foot  it 

In  the  silence  of  the  morning, 
See  the  night  slur  into  dawn, 
Hear  the  slow  great  winds  arise 
Where  tall  trees  flank  the  way 
And  shoulder  toward  the  sky. 


CARL  SANDBURG  295 

The  broken  boulders  by  the  road 

Shall  not  commemorate  my  ruin. 

Regret  shall  be  the  gravel  under  foot. 

I  shall  watch  for 

Slim  birds  swift  of  wing 

That  go  where  wind  and  ranks  of  thunder 

Dive  the  wild  processionals  of  rain. 

The  dust  of  the  travelled  road 
Shall  touch  my  hands  and  face. 


KILLERS 

I  am  singing  to  you 

Soft  as  a  man  with  a  dead  child  speaks; 

Hard  as  a  man  in  handcuffs, 

Held  where  he  can  not  move: 


Under  the  sun 

Are  sixteen  million  men, 

Chosen  for  shining  teeth, 

Sharp  eyes,  hard  legs, 

And  a  running  of  young  warm  blood  in  their  wrists. 

And  a  red  juice  runs  on  the  green  grass; 
And  a  red  juice  soaks  the  dark  soil. 

And  the  sixteen  million  are  killing  .  .  .  and  killing  and 
killing. 

I  never  forget  them  day  or  night: 
They  beat  on  my  head  for  memory  of  them; 
They  pound  on  my  heart  and  I  cry  back  to  them, 
To  their  homes  and  women,  dreams  and  games. 


296  THE  NEW  POETRY 

I  wake  in  the  night  and  smell  the  trenches, 

And  hear  the  low  stir  of  sleepers  in  lines — 

Sixteen  million  sleepers  and  pickets  in  the  dark: 

Some  of  them  long  sleepers  for  always, 

Some  of  them  tumbling  to  sleep  to-morrow  for  always, 

Fixed  in  the  drag  of  the  world's  heartbreak, 

Eating  and  drinking,  toiling  .  .  .  on  a  long  job  of  killing. 

Sixteen  million  men. 


NOCTURNE  IN  A  DESERTED  BRICKYARD 

Stuff  of  the  moon 

Runs  on  the  lapping  sand 

Out  to  the  longest  shadows. 

Under  the  curving  willows, 

And  round  the  creep  of  the  wave  line, 

Fluxions  of  yellow  and  dusk  on  the  waters 

Make  a  wide  dreaming  pansy  of  an  old  pond  in  the  night. 


HANDFULS 

Blossoms  of  babies 

Blinking  their  stories 

Come  soft 

On  the  dusk  and  the  babble; 

Little  red  gamblers, 

Handfuls  that  slept  in  the  dust. 


Summers  of  rain, 
Winters  of  drift, 
Tell  off  the  years; 
And  they  go  back 


CARL  SANDBURG  297 

Who  came  soft — 
Back  to  the  sod, 
To  silence  and  dust; 
Gray  gamblers, 
Handfuls  again. 


UNDER  THE  HARVEST  MOON 

Under  the  harvest  moon, 
When  the  soft  silver 
Drips  shimmering 
Over  the  garden  nights, 
Death,  the  gray  mocker, 
Comes  and  whispers  to  you 
As  a  beautiful  friend 
Who  remembers. 

Under  the  summer  roses 

When  the  flagrant  crimson 

Lurks  in  the  dusk 

Of  the  wild  red  leaves, 

Love,  with  little  hands, 

Comes  and  touches  you 

With  a  thousand  memories, 

And  asks  you 

Beautiful,  unanswerable  questions. 


CHOOSE 

The  single  clenched  fist  lifted  and  ready, 

Or  the  open  asking  hand  held  out  and  waiting. 

Choose: 
For  we  meet  by  one  or  the  other. 


298  THE  NEW  POETRY 


KIN 

Brother,  I  am  fire 

Surging  under  the  ocean  floor. 

I  shall  never  meet  you,  brother — 

Not  for  years,  anyhow; 

Maybe  thousands  of  years,  brother. 

Then  I  will  warm  you, 

Hold  you  close,  wrap  you  in  circles, 

Use  you  and  change  you — 

Maybe  thousands  of  years,  brother. 


PLACES 

Roses  and  gold 
For  you  today, 
And  the  flash  of  flying  flags. 

I  will  have 

Ashes, 

Dust  in  my  hair, 

Crushes  of  hoofs. 

Your  name 

Fills  the  mouth 

Of  rich  man  and  poor. 

Women  bring 
Armf uls  of  flowers 
And  throw  on  you. 

I  go  hungry 
Down  in  dreams 
And  loneliness, 
Across  the  rain 
To  slashed  hills 
Where  men  wait  and  hope  for  me. 


CARL  SANDBURG  299 


JOY 

Let  a  joy  keep  you. 

Reach  out  your  hands 

And  take  it  when  it  runs  by, 

As  the  Apache  dancer 

Clutches  his  woman. 

I  have  seen  them 

Live  long  and  laugh  loud, 

Sent  on  singing,  singing, 

Smashed  to  the  heart 

Under  the  ribs 

With  a  terrible  love. 

Joy  always, 

Joy  everywhere — 

Let  joy  kill  you! 

Keep  away  from  the  little  deaths. 


THE  GREAT  HUNT 

I  can  not  tell  you  now; 

When  the  wind's  drive  and  whirl 

Blow  me  along  no  longer, 

And  the  wind's  a  whisper  at  last — 

Maybe  I'll  tell  you  then — 

some  other  time. 

When  the  rose's  flash  to  the  sunset 
Reels  to  the  wrack  and  the  twist, 
And  the  rose  is  a  red  bygone, 
When  the  face  I  love  is  going 
And  the  gate  to  the  end  shall  clang, 
And  it's  no  use  to  beckon  or  say,  "So  long"- 
Maybe  I'll  tell  you  then- 
some  other  time. 


300  THE  NEW  POETRY 

I  never  knew  any  more  beautiful  than  you: 
I  have  hunted  you  under  my  thoughts, 
I  have  broken  down  under  the  wind 
And  into  the  roses  looking  for  you. 
I  shall  never  find  any 

greater  than  you. 


OUR  PRAYER  OF  THANKS 

God, 
For  the  gladness  here  where  the  sun  is  shining  at  evening  on  the 

weeds  at  the  river, 
Our  prayer  of  thanks. 

God, 

For  the  laughter  of  children  who  tumble  barefooted  and  bare- 
headed in  the  summer  grass, 
Our  prayer  of  thanks. 

God, 
For  the  sunset  and  the  stars,  the  women  and  their  white  arms  that 

hold  us, 
Our  prayer  of  thanks. 

God, 

If  you  are  deaf  and  blind,  if  this  is  all  lost  to  you, 
God,  if  the  dead  in  their  coffins  amid  the  silver  handles  on  the 
edge  of  town,  or  the  reckless  dead  of  war  days  thrown  unknown 
in  pits,  if  these  dead  are  forever  deaf  and  blind  and  lost, 
Our  prayer  of  thanks. 

God, 
The  game  is  all  your  way,  the  secrets  and  the  signals  and  the 

system;  and  so,  for  the  break  of  the  game  and  the  first  play 

and  the  last, 
Our  prayer  of  thanks. 


CLARA  SHANAFELT  301 

Clara  Shanafelt 
TO  THEE 

White  foam  flower,  red  flame  flower 

On  my  tree  of  delight. 
Lean  from  the.  shadow 
Like  singing  in  sorrow— 
Pale  flower  of  thy  smile,  flame  flower  of  thy  touch, 

In  my  night. 

CAPRICE 

Who  will  be  naming  the  wind 

That  lifts  me  and  leaves  me; 

Swelleth  my  budding  flame, 

Foully  bereaves  me? 

From  the  land  whose  forgotten  name 

Man  shall  not  find, 

Blowest  thou,  wind? 

A  VIVID  GIRL 

Her  face  is  fair  and  smooth  and  fine, 
Childlike,  with  secret  laughter  lit, 
Drooping  in  pity,  bright  with  wit, 
A  flower,  a  flame — God  fashioned  it. 
Who  sees  her  tastes  the  sacred  wine. 


302  THE  NEW  POETRY 


INVOCATION 

O  glass-blower  of  time, 

Hast  blown  all  shapes  at  thy  fire? 
Canst  thou  no  lovelier  bell, 

No  clearer  bubble,  clear  as  delight,  inflate  me — 
Worthy  to  hold  such  wine 

As  was  never  yet  trod  from  the  grape, 
Since  the  stars  shed  their  light,  since  the  moon 

Troubled  the  night  with  her  beauty? 


PASTEL 

She  has  a  clear,  wind-sheltered  loveliness, 

Like  pale  streams  winding  far  and  hills  withdrawn 

From  the  bright  reaches  of  the  noon.    Dawn 

Is  her  lifting  fancy,  but  her  heart 

Is  orchard  boughs  and  dusk  and  quietness. 


A  GALLANT  WOMAN 

She  burst  fierce  wine 

From  the  tough  skin  of  pain, 

Like  wind  that  wrings  from  rigid  skies 

A  scant  and  bitter  gleam, 

Long  after  the  autumnal  dusk 

Has  folded  all  the  valleys  in. 


CLARA  SHANAFELT  303 


SCHERZO 

The  elder's  bridal  in  July, 

Bright  as  a  cloud! 

A  ripe  blonde  girl, 

Billowing  to  the  ground  in  foamy  petticoats, 

With  breasts  full-blown 

Swelling  her  bodice. 

But  later 

When  the  small  black-ruddy  berries 

Tempt  the  birds  to  strip  the  stems, 

And  the  leaves  begin  to  yellow  and  fall  off 

While  late  summer's  still  in  its  green, 

Then  you  look  lank  and  used  up, 

Elder; 

Your  big  bones  stick  out, 

You're  the  kind  of  woman 

Wears  bleak  at  forty. 

I'll  take  my  constant  pleasure 

In  a  willow-tree  that  ripples  silver 

All  the  summer. 

And  when  the  winter  comes  in  greasy  rags 

Like  a  half-naked  beggar, 

Lets  out  the  plaited  splendor 

Of  her  bright  and  glancing  hair. 


304  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Frances  Shaw 

WHO  LOVES  THE  RAIN 

Who  loves  the  rain 

And  loves  his  home, 
And  looks  on  life  with  quiet  eyes, 

Hun  will  I  follow  through  the  storm; 

And  at  his  hearth-fire  keep  me  warm; 
Nor  hell  nor  heaven  shall  that  soul  surprise, 

Who  loves  the  rain, 

And  loves  his  home, 
And  looks  on  life  with  quiet  eyes. 

THE  HARP  OF  THE  WIND 

My  house  stands  high — 
Where  the  harp  of  the  wind 
Plays  all  day, 
Plays  all  night; 
And  the  city  light 
Is  far  away. 

Where  hangs  the  harp  that  the  winds  play? — 
High  in  the  air — 
Over  the  sea? 

The  long  straight  streets  of  the  far-away  town, 
Where  the  lines  of  light  go  sweeping  down, 
Are  the  strings  of  its  minstrelsy. 

And  the  harp  of  the  wind 

Gives  to  the  wind 

A  song  of  the  city's  tears; 

Thin  and  faint,  the  cry  of  a  child, 

Plaint  of  the  soul  unreconciled, 

A  song  of  the  passing  years. 


FRANCES  SHAW  305 


THE  RAGPICKER 

The  Ragpicker  sits  and  sorts  her  rags: 
Silk  and  homespun  and  threads  of  gold 

She  plucks  to  pieces  and  marks  with  tags; 
And  her  eyes  are  ice  and  her  fingers  cold. 

The  Ragpicker  sits  in  the  back  of  my  brain; 

Keenly  she  looks  me  through  and  through. 
One  flaming  shred  I  have  hidden  away — 

She  shall  not  have  my  love  for  you. 


COLOGNE  CATHEDRAL 

The  little  white  prayers 

Of  Elspeth  Fry 
Float  up  the  arches 

Into  the  sky. 

A  little  black  bird 
On  the  belfry  high 

Pecks  at  them 
As  they  go  by. 


STAR  THOUGHT 

I  shall  see  a  star  tonight 

From  a  distant  mountain  height; 

From  a  city  you  will  see 

The  same  star  that  shines  on  me. 

'Tis  not  of  the  firmament 

On  a  solar  journey  bent; 

Fixed  it  is  through  time  and  weather ;- 

'Tis  a  thought  we  hold  together. 


306  THE  NEW  POETRY 


THE  CHILD'S  QUEST 

My  mother  twines  me  roses  wet  with  dew; 

Oft  have  I  sought  the  garden  through  and  through; 

I  cannot  find  the  tree  whereon 

My  mother's  roses  grew. 

Seek  not,  O  child,  the  tree  whereon 

Thy  mother's  roses  grew. 

My  mother  tells  me  tales  of  noble  deeds; 
Oft  have  I  sought  her  book  when  no  one  heeds; 
I  cannot  find  the  page,  alas, 
From  which  my  mother  reads. 

Seek  not,  O  child,  to  find  the  page 

From  which  thy  mother  reads. 

My  mother  croons  me  songs  all  soft  and  low, 
Through  the  white  night  where  little  breezes  blow; 
Yet  never  when  the  morning  dawns, 
My  mother's  songs  I  know. 

Seek  not,  O  child,  at  dawn  of  day 

Thy  mother's  songs  to  know. 


LITTLE  PAGAN  RAIN  SONG 

In  the  dark  and  peace  of  my  final  bed, 
The  wet  grass  waving  above  my  head, 
At  rest  from  love,  at  rest  from  pain, 
I  lie  and  listen  to  the  rain. 

Falling,  softly  falling, 

Song  of  my  soul  that  is  free; 

Song  of  my  soul  that  has  not  forgot 
The  sleeping  body  of  me. 


CONSTANCE  LINDSAY  SKINNER  307 

When  quiet  and  calm  and  straight  I  lie, 
High  in  the  air  my  soul  rides  by: 
Shall  I  await  thee,  soul,  in  vain? 
Hark  to  the  answer  in  the  rain. 

Falling,  softly  falling, 

Song  of  my  soul  that  is  free ; 
Song  of  my  soul  that  will  not  forget 

The  sleeping  body  of  me. 


Constance  Lindsay  Skinner 

SONGS  OF  THE  COAST-DWELLERS 

THE  CHIEF'S  PRAYER  AFTER  THE  SALMON  CATCH 

O  Kia-Kunae,  praise! 

Thou  hast  opened  thy  hand  among  the  stars, 

And  sprinkled  the  sea  with  food; 

The  catch  is  great;  thy  children  will  live. 

See,  on  the  roofs  of  the  villages,  the  red  meat  drying; 

Another  year  thou  hast  encompassed  us  with  life. 

Praise!    Praise!    Kunae! 

O  Father,  we  have  waited  with  shut  mouths, 

With  hearts  silent,  and  hands  quiet, 

Waited  the  time  of  prayer; 

Lest  with  fears  we  should  beset  thee, 

And  pray  the  unholy  prayer  of  asking. 

We  waited  silently;  and  thou  gavest  life. 

Oh,  praise!    Praise!    Praise! 

Open  the  silent  mouths,  the  shut  hearts,  my  tribe: 

Sing  high  the  prayer  of  Thanksgiving, 

The  prayer  He  taught  in  the  beginning  to  the  Kwakiutl — 


308  THE  NEW  POETRY 

The  good  rejoicing  prayer  of  thanks. 

As  the  sea  sings  on  the  wet  shore,  when  the  ice  thunders 

back, 

And  the  blue  water  floats  again,  warm,  shining,  living, 
So  break  thy  ice-bound  heart,  and  the  cold  lip's  silence — 
Praise  Kunae  for  life,  as  wings  up-flying,  as  eagles  to  the  sun. 
Praise !    Praise !    Praise ! 


SONG  OF  WHIP-PLAITING 

In  the  dawn  I  gathered  cedar-boughs 
For  the  plaiting  of  thy  whip. 
They  were  wet  with  sweet  drops; 
They  still  thought  of  the  night. 

All  alone  I  shredded  cedar-boughs, 
Green  boughs  in  the  pale  light, 
Where  the  morning  meets  the  sea, 
And  the  great  mountain  stops. 

Earth  was  very  still. 

I  heard  no  sound  but  the  whisper  of  my  knife, 

My  black  flint  knife. 

It  whispered  among  the  white  strands  of  the  cedar, 

Whispered  in  parting  the  sweet  cords  for  thy  whip. 

O  sweet-smelling  juice  of  cedar — 

Life-ooze  of  love! 

My  knife  drips: 

Its  whisper  is  the  only  sound  in  all  the  world! 

Finer  than  young  sea-lions'  hairs 

Are  my  cedar-strands: 

They  are  fine  as  little  roots  deep  down. 

(O  little  roots  of  cedar 

Far,  far  under  the  bosom  of  Tsa-Kumts! — 


CONSTANCE  LINDSAY  SKINNER  309 

They  have  plaited  her  through  with  love.) 

Now,  into  my  love-gift 

Closely,  strongly,  I  will  weave  them — 

Little  strands  of  pain! 

Since  I  saw  thee 

Standing  with  thy  torch  in  my  doorway, 

Their  little  roots  are  deep  in  me. 

In  the  dawn  I  gathered  cedar-boughs: 

Sweet,  sweet  was  their  odor, 

They  were  wet  with  tears — 

The  sweetness  will  not  leave  my  hands, 

No,  not  in  salt  sea- washings: 

Tears  will  not  wash  away  sweetness. 

I  shall  have  sweet  hands  for  thy  service. 

(Ah — sometimes — thou  wilt  be  gentle? 
Little  roots  of  pain  are  deep,  deep  in  me 
Since  I  saw  thee  standing  in  my  doorway.) 

I  have  quenched  thy  torch — 
I  have  plaited  thy  whip. 
I  am  thy  Woman! 

NO  ANSWER  IS  GIVEN 

I  am  Ah-woa-te,  the  Hunter. 

I  met  a  maiden  in  the  shadow  of  the  rocks; 

Her  eyes  were  strange  and  clear, 

Her  fair  lips  were  shaped  like  the  bow  of  dawning. 

I  asked  her  name, 

Striking  my  spear  in  the  deep  earth  for  resting. 

"I  am  Kantlak,  a  maiden,  named  for  the  Morning. 
On  the  mountain-top  I  heard  two  eagles  talking — 
The  word  was  Love. 


3IO  THE  NEW  POETRY 

They  cried  it,  beating  their  wings  on  each  other 

Until  they  bled;  and  she  fell, 

Yet,  falling,  still  weakly  cried  it 

To  him  soaring:  and  died. 

I  came  to  a  mossy  low  valley  of  flowers. 

There  I  saw  Men-iak,  the  white  grouse, 

(White  with  chaste  dreams,  like  the  Spring  Moon,  fairer  than 

flowers). 

Through  the  forest  a  dark  bird  swooped,  with  fierce  eyes, 
And  Men-iak  flew  down  to  it. 
Her  white  breast  is  red-dyed,  she  lies  on  the  moss; 
Yet  faintly  cries  the  same  strange  word. 
Hunter,  will  you  come  to  my  little  fire  and  tell  me 
What  Love  is?" 

I  could  not  see  the  maiden's  face  clearly,  for  the  dusk, 

Where  she  sat  by  her  small  fire — only  her  eyes. 

In  the  little  flicker  I  saw  her  feet;  they  were  bare — 

Tireless,  slim  brown  feet. 

I  saw  how  fair  her  lips  were — 

I  drew  nearer  to  cast  my  log  on  the  fire.    I  said: 

"  Maiden,  I  am  the  Hunter. 

When  dusk  ends  the  chase  I  leave  the  Mighty  Killing. 

Far  or  near,  where  gleams  some  little  fire, 

I  grope  through  the  forest  with  my  heavy  log; 

Till  I  find  one  by  the  fire,  sitting  alone  without  fuel. 

I  cast  my  log  gladly  into  the  fire — thus. 

It  grips,  the  flames  mount,  the  warmth  embraces. 

"Almost  I  can  see  your  face,  Woman; 

The  bow  of  your  fair  lips  is  hot  with  speeded  arrows, 

Your  strange  clear  eyes  have  darkened. 

Fear  not — our  fire  will  outlast  the  dark." 

"Hunter,  what  of  the  cold  on  the  bleak  hillside 
When  the  log  burns  gray,  and  the  fire  is  ashes?  " 
I  replied,  "I  have  never  seen  this: 


CONSTANCE  LINDSAY  SKINNER  311 

When  the  fire  burns  low  I  am  asleep." 

She  said:  "What  of  me,  if  I  sleep  not,  and  see  the  ashes?" 

I  yawned:  I  said,  "I  know  not; 

I  wake  in  the  sun  and  go  forth." 

The  bow  of  her  lips  was  like  the  moon's  cold  circle. 

She  said,  "Hunter,  you  have  told  me  of  Love!" 

"It  may  be  so,"  I  answered.    I  wished  to  sleep. 

She  said,  "Already  it  is  ashes." 

I  looked  and  saw  that  her  face  was  gray, 

As  if  the  wind  had  blown  the  ashes  over  it. 

I  was  angry;  I  said,  "Better  you  had  slept." 

She  said,  "Yes — but  I  lie  bleeding  on  the  moss, 

Crying  this  word." 

I  answered,  "This  is  so;  but  wherefore?"  and  asked,  idly, 

"Wherefore  remember  him  who  brought  to  your  lone  little  fire 

The  log  that  now  is  ashes?  " 

She  shivered  in  the  cold  dawn; 

I  saw  that  her  eyes  were  darker  than  shadows. 

Her  fair  mouth  was  like  my  perfect  bow, 

But  I  could  fit  no  more  arrows  to  it. 

She  said,  "Hunter,  see  how  gray  are  these  rocks 

Where  we  have  sheltered  our  brief  night." 

I  looked — they  were  ashen. 

She  said:  "See  how  they  come  together  here — and  here — 

As  the  knees,  the  breast,  the  great  brow,  the  forgotten  eyes, 

Of  a  woman, 

Sitting,  waiting,  stark  and  still, 

And  always  gray; 

Though  hunters  camp  each  night  between  her  knees, 

And  little  fires  are  kindled  and  burned  out  in  her  hollows." 

It  was  so;  the  mountain  was  a  stone  woman  sitting. 

Kantlak  said:  "She  remembers  him  who  turned  her  fire  to  ashes; 

She  waits  to  know  the  meaning  of  her  waiting — 

Why  the  love  that  wounded  her  can  never  be  cast  out." 


312  THE  NEW  POETRY 

I  asked  idly,  "Who  will  tell  her?"— 

And  laughed,  for  the  sun  was  up.    I  reached  for  my  arrows; 

I  drew  my  strong  spear  from  the  deep  earth  by  her  feet. 

Kantlak  looked  up  to  the  other  gray  face,  and  said, 

"No  answer  is  given." 

Down  to  the  cold  white  endless  sea-shore 

Slowly  she  went,  with  bent  head. 

A  young  deer  cast  its  leaping  shadow  on  the  pool. 

I  ran  upon  the  bright  path,  swaying  my  spear. 


James  Stephens 

WHAT  TOMAS  AN  BUILE  SAID  IN  A  PUB 

I  saw  God.    Do  you  doubt  it? 

Do  you  dare  to  doubt  it? 

I  saw  the  Almighty  Man.    His  hand 

Was  resting  on  a  mountain,  and 

He  looked  upon  the  World  and  all  about  it: 

I  saw  Him  plainer  than  you  see  me  now, 

You  mustn't  doubt  it. 

He  was  not  satisfied; 

His  look  was  all  dissatisfied. 

His  beard  swung  on  a  wind  far  out  of  sight 

Behind  the  world's  curve,  and  there  was  light 

Most  fearful  from  His  forehead,  and  He  sighed, 

"That  star  went  always  wrong,  and  from  the  start 

I  was  dissatisfied." 

He  lifted  up  His  hand — 

I  say  He  heaved  a  dreadful  hand 

Over  the  spinning  Earth,  then  I  said:  "Stay — 


JAMES  STEPHENS  313 

You  must  not  strike  it,  God;  I'm  in  the  way; 
And  I  will  never  move  from  where  I  stand." 
He  said,  "Dear  child,  I  feared  that  you  were  dead," 
And  stayed  His  hand. 


BESSIE  BOBTAIL 

As  down  the  street  she  wambled  slow, 

She  had  not  got  a  place  to  go: 

She  had  not  got  a  place  to  fall 

And  rest  herself — no  place  at  all. 

She  stumped  along  and  wagged  her  pate 

And  said  a  thing  was  desperate. 

Her  face  was  screwed  and  wrinkled  tight 
Just  like  a  nut — and,  left  and  right, 
On  either  side  she  wagged  her  head 
And  said  a  thing;  and  what  she  said 
Was  desperate  as  any  word 
That  ever  yet  a  person  heard. 

I  walked  behind  her  for  a  while 

And  watched  the  people  nudge  and  smile. 

But  ever  as  she  went  she  said, 

As  left  and  right  she  swung  her  head, 

—"Oh,  God  He  knows,"  and  "God  He  knows:" 

And  surely  God  Almighty  knows. 


HATE 

My  enemy  came  high, 

And  I 

Stared  fiercely  in  his  face. 

My  lips  went  writhing  back  in  a  grimace, 

And  stern  I  watched  him  with  a  narrow  eye. 

Then,  as  I  turned  away,  my  enemy, 


314  THE  NEW  POETRY 

That  bitter  heart  and  savage,  said  to  me: 

"Some  day,  when  this  is  past, 

When  all  the  arrows  that  we  have  are  cast, 

We  may  ask  one  another  why  we  hate, 

And  fail  to  find  a  story  to  relate. 

It  may  seem  to  us  then  a  mystery 

That  we  could  hate  each  other." 

Thus  said  he, 
And  did  not  turn  away, 
Waiting  to  hear  what  I  might  have  to  say. 
But  I  fled  quickly,  fearing  if  I  stayed 
I  might  have  kissed  him  as  I  would  a  maid. 


THE  WASTE  PLACES 
i 

As  a  naked  man  I  go 

Through  the  desert  sore  afraid, 
Holding  up  my  head  although 

I'm  as  frightened  as  a  maid. 

The  couching  lion  there  I  saw 
From  barren  rocks  lift  up  his  eye; 

He  parts  the  cactus  with  his  paw, 
He  stares  at  me  as  I  go  by. 

He  would  follow  on  my  trace 

If  he  knew  I  was  afraid, 
If  he  knew  my  hardy  face 

Hides  the  terrors  of  a  maid. 

In  the  night  he  rises  and 

He  stretches  forth,  he  snuffs  the  air; 
He  roars  and  leaps  along  the  sand, 

He  creeps  and  watches  everywhere. 


JAMES  STEPHENS  315 

His  burning  eyes,  his  eyes  of  bale, 

Through  the  darkness  I  can  see; 
He  lashes  fiercely  with  his  tail, 

He  would  love  to  spring  at  me. 

I  am  the  lion  in  his  lair; 

I  am  the  fear  that  frightens  me; 
I  am  the  desert  of  despair 

And  the  nights  of  agony. 

Night  or  day,  whate'er  befall, 

I  must  walk  that  desert  land, 
Until  I  can  dare  to  call 

The  lion  out  to  lick  my  hand. 


n 

As  a  naked  man  I  tread 

The  gloomy  forests,  ring  on  ring, 
Where  the  sun  that's  overhead 

Cannot  see  what's  happening. 

There  I  go:  the  deepest  shade, 
The  deepest  silence  pressing  me; 

And  my  heart  is  more  afraid 
Than  a  maiden's  heart  would  be. 

Every  day  I  have  to  run 
Underneath  the  demon  tree, 

Where  the  ancient  wrong  is  done 
While  I  shrink  in  agony. 

There  the  demon  held  a  maid 
In  his  arms,  and  as  she,  daft, 

Screamed  again  in  fear,  he  laid 
His  lips  upon  her  lips  and  laughed. 


3l6  THE  NEW  POETRY 

And  she  beckoned  me  to  run, 
And  she  called  for  help  to  me, 

And  the  ancient  wrong  was  done 
Which  is  done  eternally. 

I  am  the  maiden  and  the  fear; 

I  am  the  sunless  shade,  the  strife; 
I  the  demon  lips,  the  sneer 

Showing  under  every  life. 

I  must  tread  that  gloomy  way 
Until  I  shall  dare  to  run 

And  bear  the  demon  with  his  prey 
From  the  forest  to  the  sun. 


HAWKS 

And  as  we  walked  the  grass  was  faintly  stirred; 

We  did  not  speak — there  was  no  need  to  speak. 
Above  our  heads  there  flew  a  little  bird, 

A  silent  one  who  feared  that  we  might  seek 
Her  hard-hid  nest. 

Poor  little  frightened  one! 

If  we  had  found  your  nest  that  sunny  day 
We  would  have  passed  it  by;  we  would  have  gone 

And  never  looked  or  frightened  you  away. 

O  little  bird!  there's  many  have  a  nest, 

A  hard-found,  open  place,  with  many  a  foe; 

And  hunger  and  despair  and  little  rest, 
And  more  to  fear  than  you  can  know. 

Shield  the  nests  where'er  they  be, 
On  the  ground  or  on  the  tree; 
Guard  the  poor  from  treachery. 


GEORGE  STERLING  317 


DARK  WINGS 

Sing  while  you  may,  O  bird  upon  the  tree! 

Although  on  high,  wide-winged  above  the  day, 
Chill  evening  broadens  to  immensity, 

Sing  while  you  may. 

On  thee,  wide-hovering  too,  intent  to  slay, 

The  hawk's  slant  pinion  buoys  him  terribly — 
Thus  near  the  end  is  of  thy  happy  lay. 

The  day  and'thou  and  miserable  me 

Dark  wings  shall  cover  "up  and  hide  away 

Where  no  song  stirs  df  bird  or  memory: 
Sing  while  you  may. 


George  Sterling 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  DOVE 

Soft  from  the  linden's  bough, 
Unmoved  against  the  tranquil  afternoon, 

Eve's  dove  laments  her  now: 
"Ah,  gone!  long  gone!  shall  not  I  find  thee  soon?" 

That  yearning  in  his  voice 
Told  not  to  Paradise  a  sorrow's  tale: 

As  other  birds  rejoice 
He  sang,  a  brother  to  the  nightingale. 

By  twilight  on  her  breast 
He  saw  the  flower  sleep,  the  star  awake; 

And  calling  her  from  rest, 
Made  all  the  dawn  melodious  for  her  sake. 


318  THE  NEW  POETRY 

And  then  the  Tempter's  breath, 
The  sword  of  exile  and  the  mortal  chain — 

The  heritage  of  death 
That  gave  her  heart  to  dust,  his  own  to  pain.  .  .  . 

In  Eden  desolate 
The  seraph  heard  his  lonely  music  swoon, 

As  now,  reiterate; 
"Ah,  gone!  long  gone!  shall  not  I  find  thee  soon?" 

KINDRED 

Musing,  between  the  sunset  and  the  dark, 

As  Twilight  in  unhesitating  hands 

Bore  from  the  faint  horizon's  underlands, 

Silvern  and  chill,  the  moon's  phantasmal  ark, 

I  heard  the  sea,  and  far  away  could  mark 

Where  that  unalterable  waste  expands 

In  sevenfold  sapphire  from  the  mournful  sands, 

And  saw  beyond  the  deep  a  vibrant  spark. 

There  sank  the  sun  Arcturus,  and  I  thought: 
Star,  by  an  ocean  on  a  world  of  thine, 
May  not  a  being,  born  like  me  to  die, 
Confront  a  little  the  eternal  Naught 
And  watch  our  isolated  sun  decline — 
Sad  for  his  evanescence,  even  as  I? 

OMNIA  EXEUNT  IN  MYSTERIUM 

The  stranger  in  my  gates — lo!  that  am  I, 
And  what  my  land  of  birth  I  do  not  know, 
Nor  yet  the  hidden  land  to  which  I  go. 
One  may  be  lord  of  many  ere  he  die, 
And  tell  of  many  sorrows  in  one  sigh, 
But  know  himself  he  shall  not,  nor  his  woe, 
Nor  to  what  sea  the  tears  of  wisdom  flow; 
Nor  why  one  star  is  taken  from  the  sky. 


GEORGE  STERLING  319 

An  urging  is  upon  him  evermore, 

And  though  he  bide,  his  soul  is  wanderer, 

Scanning  the  shadows  with  a  sense  of  haste — 

Where  fade  the  tracks  of  all  who  went  before: 

A  dim  and  solitary  traveller 

On  ways  that  end  in  evening  and  the  waste. 

THE  LAST  DAYS 

The  russet  leaves  of  the  sycamore 

Lie  at  last  on  the  valley  floor — 

By  the  autumn  wind  swept  to  and  fro 

Like  ghosts  in  a  tale  of  long  ago. 

Shallow  and  clear  the  Carmel  glides 

Where  the  willows  droop  on  its  vine-walled  sides. 

The  bracken-rust  is  red  on  the  hill; 

The  pines  stand  brooding,  somber  and  still; 

Gray  are  the  cliffs,  and  the  waters  gray, 

Where  the  seagulls  dip  to  the  sea-born  spray. 

Sad  November,  lady  of  rain, 

Sends  the  goose-wedge  over  again. 

Wilder  now,  for  the  verdure's  birth, 
Falls  the  sunlight  over  the  earth; 
Kildees  call  from  the  fields  where  now 
The  banding  blackbirds  follow  the  plow; 
Rustling  poplar  and  brittle  weed 
Whisper  low  to  the  river-reed. 

Days  departing  linger  and  sigh: 
Stars  come  soon  to  the  quiet  sky; 
Buried  voices,  intimate,  strange, 
Cry  to  body  and  soul  of  change; 
Beauty,  eternal  fugitive, 
Seeks  the  home  that  we  cannot  give. 


320  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Wallace  Stevens 

PETER  QUINCE  AT  THE  CLAVIER 
I 

Just  as  my  fingers  on  these  keys 
Make  music,  so  the  self-same  sounds 
On  my  spirit  make  a  music  too. 

Music  is  feeling  then,  not  sound; 
And  thus  it  is  that  what  I  feel, 
Here  in  this  room,  desiring  you, 

Thinking  of  your  blue-shadowed  silk, 
Is  music.    It  is  like  the  strain 
Waked  in  the  elders  by  Susanna: 

Of  a  green  evening,  clear  and  warm, 
She  bathed  in  her  still  garden,  while 
The  red-eyed  elders,  watching,  felt 

The  basses  of  their  being  throb 

In  witching  chords,  and  their  thin  blood 

Pulse  pizzicati  of  Hosanna. 


In  the  green  water,  clear  and  warm, 

Susanna  lay. 

She  searched 

The  touch  of  springs, 

And  found 

Concealed  imaginings. 

She  sighed 

For  so  much  melody. 


WALLACE  STEVENS  321 

Upon  the  bank  she  stood 

In  the  cool 

Of  spent  emotions. 

She  felt,  among  the  leaves, 

The  dew 

Of  old  devotions. 

She  walked  upon  the  grass, 

Still  quavering. 

The  winds  were  like  her  maids, 

On  timid  feet, 

Fetching  her  woven  scarves, 

Yet  wavering. 

A  breath  upon  her  hand 
Muted  the  night. 
She  turned — 
A  cymbal  crashed, 
And  roaring  horns. 

m 

Soon,  with  a  noise  like  tambourines, 
Came  her  attendant  Byzantines. 

They  wondered  why  Susanna  cried 
Against  the  elders  by  her  side: 

And  as  they  whispered,  the  refrain 
Was  like  a  willow  swept  by  rain. 

Anon,  their  lamps'  uplifted  flame 
Revealed  Susanna  and  her  shame. 

And  then  the  simpering  Byzantines, 
Fled,  with  a  noise  like  tambourines. 


322  THE  NEW  POETRY 

IV 

Beauty  is  momentary  in  the  mind — 
The  fitful  tracing  of  a  portal; 
But  in  the  flesh  it  is  immortal. 

The  body  dies;  the  body's  beauty  lives. 
So  evenings  die,  in  their  green  going, 
A  wave,  interminably  flowing. 
So  gardens  die,  their  meek  breath  scenting 
The  cowl  of  Winter,  done  repenting. 
So  maidens  die,  to  the  auroral 
Celebration  of  a  maiden's  choral. 

Susanna's  music  touched  the  bawdy  strings 

Of  those  white  elders;  but,  escaping, 

Left  only  Death's  ironic  scraping. 

Now,  in  its  immortality,  it  plays 

On  the  clear  viol  of  her  memory, 

And  makes  a  constant  sacrament  of  praise. 

IN  BATTLE 

Death's  nobility  again 
Beautified  the  simplest  men. 
Fallen  Winkle  felt  the  pride 
Of  Agamemnon 
When  he  died. 

What  could  London's 

Work  and  waste 

Give  him — 

To  that  salty,  sacrificial  taste? 

What  could  London's 

Sorrow  bring — 

To  that  short,  triumphant  sting? 


WALLACE  STEVENS  323 

SUNDAY  MORNING 


Complacencies  of  the  peignoir,  and  late 
Coffee  and  oranges  in  a  sunny  chair, 
And  the  green  freedom  of  a  cockatoo 
Upon  a  rug,  mingle  to  dissipate 
The  holy  hush  of  ancient  sacrifice. 
She  dreams  a  little,  and  she  feels  the  dark 
Encroachment  of  that  old  catastrophe, 
As  a  calm  darkens  among  water-lights. 
The  pungent  oranges  and  bright,  green  wings 
Seem  things  in  some  procession  of  the  dead, 
Winding  across  wide  water,  without  sound. 
The  day  is  like  wide  water,  without  sound, 
Stilled  for  the  passing  of  her  dreaming  feet 
Over  the  seas,  to  silent  Palestine, 
Dominion  of  the  blood  and  sepulchre. 


She  hears,  upon  that  water  without  sound, 

A  voice  that  cries:  "The  tomb  in  Palestine 

Is  not  the  porch  of  spirits  lingering; 

It  is  the  grave  of  Jesus,  where  he  lay." 

We  live  in  an  old  chaos  of  the  sun, 

Or  old  dependency  of  day  and  night, 

Or  island  solitude,  unsponsored,  free, 

Of  that  wide  water,  inescapable. 

Deer  walk  upon  our  mountains,  and  the  quail 

Whistle  about  us  their  spontaneous  cries; 

Sweet  berries  ripen  in  the  wilderness; 

And,  in  the  isolation  of  the  sky, 

At  evening,  casual  flocks  of  pigeons  make 

Ambiguous  undulations  as  they  sink, 

Downward  to  darkness,  on  extended  wings. 


324  THE  NEW  POETRY 

in 

She  says:  "I  am  content  when  wakened  birds, 

Before  they  fly,  test  the  reality 

Of  misty  fields,  by  their  sweet  questionings; 

But  when  the  birds  are  gone,  and  their  warm  fields 

Return  no  more,  where,  then,  is  paradise?  " 

There  is  not  any  haunt  of  prophecy, 

Nor  any  old  chimera  of  the  grave, 

Neither  the  golden  underground,  nor  isle 

Melodious,  where  spirits  gat  them  home, 

Nor  visionary  South,  nor  cloudy  palm 

Remote  on  heaven's  hill,  that  has  endured 

As  April's  green  endures;  or  will  endure 

Like  her  remembrance  of  awakened  birds, 

Or  her  desire  for  June  and  evening,  tipped 

By  the  consummation  of  the  swallow's  wings. 


IV 

She  says,  "But  in  contentment  I  still  feel 

The  need  of  some  imperishable  bliss." 

Death  is  the  mother  of  beauty;  hence  from  her, 

Alone,  shall  come  fulfilment  to  our  dreams 

And  our  desires.    Although  she  strews  the  leaves 

Of  sure  obliteration  on  our  paths — 

The  path  sick  sorrow  took,  the  many  paths 

Where  triumph  rang  its  brassy  phrase,  or  love 

Whispered  a  little  out  of  tenderness — 

She  makes  the  willow  shiver  in  the  sun 

For  maidens  who  were  wont  to  sit  and  gaze 

Upon  the  grass,  relinquished  to  their  feet. 

She  causes  boys  to  bring  sweet-smelling  pears 

And  plums  in  ponderous  piles.    The  maidens  taste 

And  stray  impassioned  in  the  littering  leaves. 


AJAN  SYRIAN  325 


Supple  and  turbulent,  a  ring  of  men 

Shall  chant  in  orgy  on  a  summer  morn 

Their  boisterous  devotion  to  the  sun — 

Not  as  a  god,  but  as  a  god  might  be, 

Naked  among  them,  like  a  savage  source. 

Their  chant  shall  be  a  chant  of  paradise, 

Out  of  their  blood,  returning  to  the  sky; 

And  in  their  chant  shall  enter,  voice  by  voice, 

The  windy  lake  wherein  their  lord  delights, 

The  trees,  like  seraphim,  and  echoing  hills," 

That  choir  among  themselves  long  afterward. 

They  shall  know  well  the  heavenly  fellowship 

Of  men  that  perish  and  of  summer  morn — 

And  whence  they  came  and  whither  they  shall  go, 

The  dew  upon  their  feet  shall  manifest. 


Ajan  Syrian 

THE  SYRIAN  LOVER  IN  EXILE  REMEMBERS  THEE, 
LIGHT  OF  MY  LAND 

Rose  and  amber  was  the  sunset  on  the  river, 

Red-rose  the  hills  about  Bingariz. 

High  upon  their  brows,  the  black  tree-branches 

Spread  wide  across  the  turquoise  sky. 

I  saw  the  parrots  fly — 

A  cloud  of  rising  green  from  the  long  green  grasses, 

A  mist  of  gold  and  green  winging  fast 

Into  the  gray  shadow-silence  of  the  tamarisks. 

Pearl-white  and  wild  was  the  flood  bek>w  the  ford. 

I  ran  down  the  long  hot  road  to  thy  door; 


326  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Thy  door  shone — a  white  flower  in  the  dusk  lingering  to  close. 
The  stars  rose  and  stood  above  thy  casement. 
I  cast  my  cloak  and  climbed  to  thee, 
To  thee,  Makhir  Subatu! 


Naked  she  stood  and  glistening  like  the  stars  over  her — 

Her  hair  trailed  about  her  like  clouds  about  the  moon — 

Naked  as  the  soul  seeking  love, 

As  the  soul  that  waits  for  death. 

White  with  benediction,  pendulous,  unfolding  from  the  dark 

As  the  crystal  sky  of  morning,  she  waited, 

And  leaned  her  light  above  the  earth  of  my  desire. 

Like  a  world  that  spins  from  the  hand  of  Infinity, 

Up  from  the  night  I  leaped — 

To  thee,  Makhir  Subatu! 


Pearl-bright  and  wild,  a  flood  without  a  ford, 

The  River  of  Love  flowed  on. 

Her  eyes  were  gleaming  sails  in  a  storm, 

Dipping,  swooning,  beckoning. 

The  dawn  came  and  trampled  over  her; 

Gray-arched  and  wide,  the  sanctuary  of  light  descended. 

It  was  the  altar  where  I  lay; 

And  I  lifted  my  face  at  last,  praying. 

I  saw  the  first  glow  fall  about  her, 

Like  marble  pillars  coming  forth  from  the  shadow. 

I  raised  my  hands,  thanking  the  gods 

That  in  love  I  had  grown  so  tall 

I  could  touch  the  two  lamps  in  heaven, 

The  sun  and   moon  hanging  in  the   low  heaven  beneath  her 

face. 

How  great  through  love  had  I  grown 
To  breathe  my  flame  into  the  two  lamps  of  heaven! 


RABINDRANATH  TAGORE  327 

0  eyes  of  the  eagle  and  the  dove, 
Eyes  red-starred  and  white-starred, 

Eyes  that  have  too  much  seen,  too  much  confessed, 

Close,  close,  beneath  my  kisses! 

Tell  me  no  more,  demand  me  no-  more — it  is  day. 

1  see  the  gold-green  rain  of  parrot-wings 
Sparkling  athwart  the  gray  and  rose-gold  morning. 
I  go  from  thy  closed  door  down  the  long  lone  road 
To  the  ricefields  beyond  the  river, 

Beyond  the  river  that  has  a  ford. 

I  came  to  thee  with  hope,  with  desire.    I  have  them  no  longer. 
Sleep,  sleep;  I  am  locked  in  thee. 

Thus  the  exile  lover  remembers  thee,  Makhir  Subatu! 


Rabindranath  Tagore 
FROM  "GITANJALI" 


Thou  hast  made  me  known  to  friends  whom  I  knew  not.  Thou 
hast  given  me  seats  in  homes  not  my  own.  Thou  hast  brought 
the  distant  near  and  made  a  brother  of  the  stranger.  I  am 
uneasy  at  heart  when  I  have  to  leave  my  accustomed  shelter; 
I  forgot  that  there  abides  the  old  in  the  new,  and  that  there 
also  thou  abidest. 

Through  birth  and  death,  in  this  world  or  in  others,  wherever 
thou  leadest  me  it  is  thou,  the  same,  the  one  companion  of 
my  endless  life  who  ever  linkest  my  heart  with  bonds  of  joy 
to  the  unfamiliar.  When  one  knows  thee,  then  alien  there  is 
none,  then  no  door  is  shut.  Oh,  grant  me  my  prayer  that  I 
may  never  lose  the  bliss  of  the  touch  of  the  One  in  the  play 
of  the  many. 


328  THE  NEW  POETRY 


No  more  noisy,  loud  words  from  me,  such  is  my  master's  will. 

Henceforth  I  deal  in  whispers.    The  speech  of  my  heart  will 

be  carried  on  in  murmurings  of  a  song. 
Men  hasten  to  the  King's  market.    All  the  buyers  and  sellers  are 

there.    But  I  have  my  untimely  leave  in  the  middle  of  the 

day,  in  the  thick  of  work. 
Let  then  the  flowers  come  out  in  my  garden,  though  it  is  not 

their  time,  and  let  the  midday  bees  strike  up  their  lazy  hum. 
Full  many  an  hour  have  I  spent  in  the  strife  of  the  good  and  the 

evil,  but  now  it  is  the  pleasure  of  my  playmate  of  the  empty 

days  to  draw  my  heart  on  to  him,  and  I  know  not  why  is  this 

sudden  call  to  what  useless  inconsequence! 

m 

On  the  day  when  the  lotus  bloomed,  alas,  my  mind  was  straying, 

and  I  knew  it  not.    My  basket  was  empty  and  the  flower 

remained  unheeded. 
Only  now  and  again  a  sadness  fell  upon  me,  and  I  started  up  from 

my  dream  and  felt  a  sweet  trace  of  a  strange  smell  in  the 

south  wind. 
That  vague  fragrance  made  my  heart  ache  with  longing,  and  it 

seemed  to  me  that  it  was  the  eager  breath  of  the  summer 

seeking  for  its  completion. 
I  knew  not  then  that  it  was  so  near,  that  it  was  mine,  and  this 

perfect  sweetness  had  blossomed  in  the  depth  of  my  own  heart. 

IV 

By  all  means  they  try  to  hold  me  secure  who  love  me  hi  this  world. 
But  it  is  otherwise  with  thy  love,  which  is  greater  than  theirs, 
and  thou  keepest  me  free.  Lest  I  forget  them  they  never 
venture  to  leave  me  alone.  But  day  passes  by  after  day  and 
thou  art  not  seen. 

If  I  call  not  thee  in  my  prayers,  if  I  keep  not  thee  in  my  heart — 
thy  love  for  me  still  waits  for  my  love. 


RABINDRANATH  TAGORE  329 


I  was  not  aware  of  the  moment  when  I  first  crossed  the  threshold 
of  this  life.  What  was  the  power  that  made  me  open  out 
into  this  vast  mystery  like  a  bud  in  the  forest  at  midnight? 
When  in  the  morning  I  looked  upon  the  light  I  felt  in  a  mo- 
ment that  I  was  no  stranger  in  this  world,  that  the  inscrutable 
without  name  and  form  had  taken  me  in  its  arms  in  the  form 
of  my  own  mother.  Even  so,  in  death  the  same  unknown  will 
appear  as  ever  known  to  me.  And  because  I  love  this  life, 
I  know  I  shall  love  death  as  well.  The  child  cries  out  when 
from  the  right  breast  the  mother  takes  it  away  to  find  in  the 
very  next  moment  its  consolation  in  the  left  one. 

VI 

Thou  art  the  sky  and  thou  art  the  nest  as  well.  Oh,  thou  beauti- 
ful, there  in  the  nest  it  is  thy  love  that  encloses  the  soul  with 
colors  and  sounds  and  odors.  There  comes  the  morning 
with  the  golden  basket  in  her  right  hand  bearing  the  wreath 
of  beauty,  silently  to  crown  the  earth.  And  there  comes  the 
evening  over  the  lonely  meadows  deserted  by  herds,  through 
trackless  paths,  carrying  cool  draughts  of  peace  in  her  golden 
pitcher  from  the  western  ocean  of  rest. 

But  there,  where  spreads  the  infinite  sky  for  the  soul  to  take  her 
flight  in,  reigns  the  stainless  white  radiance.  There  is  no 
day  nor  night,  nor  form  nor  color,  and  never  never  a  word. 

FROM  "THE  GARDENER" 


Over  the  green  and  yellow  rice  fields  sweep  the  shadows  of  the 
autumn  clouds,  followed  by  the  swift-chasing  sun. 

The  bees  forget  to  sip  their  honey;  drunken  with  the  light  they 
foolishly  hum  and  hover;  and  the  ducks  in  the  sandy  river- 
bank  clamor  in  joy  for  mere  nothing. 


330  THE  NEW  POETRY 

None  shall  go  back  home,  brothers,  this  morning,  none  shall  go  to 

work. 
We  will  take  the  blue  sky  by  storm  and  plunder  the  space  as  we 

run. 

Laughters  fly  floating  in  the  air  like  foams  in  the  flood. 
Brothers,  we  shall  squander  our  morning  in  futile  songs. 


Keep  me  fully  glad  with  nothing.  Only  take  my  hand  in  your 
hand. 

In  the  gloom  of  the  deepening  night  take  up  my  heart  and  play 
with  it  as  you  list.  Bind  me  close  to  you  with  nothing. 

I  will  spread  myself  out  at  your  feet  and  lie  still.  Under  this 
clouded  sky  I  will  meet  silence  with  silence.  I  will  become 
one  with  the  night  clasping  the  earth  in  my  breast. 

Make  my  life  glad  with  nothing. 

The  ra,ins  sweep  the  sky  from  end  to  end.  Jasmines  in  the  wet 
untamable  wind  revel  in  their  own  perfume.  The  cloud- 
hidden  stars  thrill  in  secret.  Let  me  fill  to  the  full  of  my  heart 
with  nothing  but  my  own  depth  of  joy. 

m 

My  soul  is  alight  with  your  infinitude  of  stars.  Your  world  has 
broken  upon  me  like  a  flood.  The  flowers  of  your  garden 
blossom  in  my  body.  The  joy  of  life  that  is  everywhere  burns 
like  an  incense  in  my  heart.  And  the  breath  of  all  things 
plays  on  my  life  as  on  a  pipe  of  reeds. 

IV 

Leave  off  your  works,  bride.    Listen,  the  guest  has  come. 

Do  you  hear,  he  is  gently  shaking  the  fastening  chain  of  the  door? 

Let  not  your  anklets  be  loud,  and  your  steps  be  too  hurried  to 

meet  him. 
Leave  off  your  works,  bride;  the  guest  has  come,  in  the  evening. 


RABINDRAN ATH  TAGORE  33 1 

No,  it  is  not  the  wind,  bride.    Do  not  be  frightened. 

It  is  the  full-moon  night  of  April,  shadows  are  pale  in  the  court- 
yard, the  sky  overhead  is  bright. 

Draw  your  veil  over  your  face  if  you  must,  take  the  lamp  from 
your  room  if  you  fear. 

No,  it  is  not  the  wind,  bride;  do  not  be  frightened. 

Have  no  word  with  him  if  you  are  shy,  stand  aside  by  the  door 

when  you  meet  him. 

If  he  asks  you  questions,  lower  your  eyes  in  silence,  if  you  wish. 
Do  not  let  your  bracelets  jingle,  when,  lamp  in  hand,  you  lead 

him  in. 
Have  no  word  with  him  if  you  are  shy. 

Have  you  not  finished  your  works  yet,  bride?    Listen,  the  guest 

has  come. 

Have  you  not  lit  the  lamp  in  the  cowshed? 

Have  you  not  got  ready  the  offering  basket  for  the  evening  service? 
Have  you  not  put  the  auspicious  red  mark  at  the  parting  of  your 

hair,  and  done  your  toilet  for  the  night? 
O  bride,  do  you  hear,  the  guest  has  come? 
Have  you  not  finished  your  works  yet? 


Come  as  you  are,  tarry  not  over  your  toilet. 

If  your  braiding  has  come  loose,  if  the  parting  of  your  hair  be  not 

straight,  if  the  ribbons  of  your  bodice  be  not  fastened,  do  not 

mind. 
Come  as  you  are,  tarry  not  over  your  toilet. 

Come  with  quick  steps  over  the  grass. 

If  your  feet  are  pale  with  the  dew,  if  your  anklets  slacken,  if 

pearls  drop  out  of  your  chain,  do  not  mind. 
Come  with  quick  steps  over  the  grass. 


332  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Do  you  see  the  clouds  wrapping  the  sky? 

Flocks  of  cranes  fly  up  from  the  further  riverbank  and  fitful  gusts 

of  wind  rush  over  the  heath. 

The  anxious  cattle  run  to  their  stalls  in  the  village. 
Do  you  see  the  clouds  wrapping  the  sky? 

In  vain  you  light  your  toilet  lamp;  it  flickers  and  goes  out  in  the 

wind. 
Surely,  who  would  know  that  with  lamp-black  your  eyelids  are 

not  touched?    For  your  eyes  are  darker  than  rain  clouds. 
In  vain  you  light  your  toilet  lamp;  it  goes  out. 

Come  as  you  are,  tarry  not  over  your  toilet. 

If  the  wreath  is  not  woven,  who  cares?    If  the  wrist-chain  has 

not  been  tied,  leave  it  by. 
The  sky  is  overcast  with  clouds;  it  is  late. 
Come  as  you  are,  tarry  not  over  your  toilet. 


VI 

Lest  I  should  know  you  too  easily,  you  play  with  me. 
You  blind  me  with  flashes  of  laughter  to  hide  your  tears. 
I  know,  I  know  your  art; 
You  never  say  the  word  you  would. 

Lest  I  should  prize  you  not,  you  elude  me  in  a  thousand  ways. 
Lest  I  should  mix  you  with  the  crowd,  you  stand  aside. 
I  know,  I  know  your  art; 
You  never  walk  the  path  you  would. 

Your  claim  is  more  than  others;  that  is  why  you  are  silent. 

With  a  playful  carelessness  you  avoid  my  gifts. 

I  know,  I  know  your  art; 

You  never  accept  what  you  would. 


RABINDRANATH  TAGORE  333 

vn 

Amidst  the  rush  and  roar  of  life,  O  beauty,  carved  in  stone,  you 

stand  mute  and  still,  alone  and  aloof. 

Great  Time  sits  enamoured  at  your  feet  and  repeats  to  you: 
"Speak,  speak  to  me,  my  love;  speak,  my  mute  bride!" 
But  your  speech  is  shut  up  in  stone,  O  you  immovably  fair! 

vm 

Tell  me  if  this  is  all  true,  my  lover? 

tell  me  if  it  is  true. 
When  the  eyes  of  me  flash  their  lightning  on  you, 

dark  clouds  in  your  breast  make  stormy  answer; 
Is  it  then  true 

that  the  dew  drops  fall  from  the  night  when  I  am  seen, 

and  the  morning  light  is  glad  when  it  wraps  my  body? 

Is  it  true,  is  it  true,  that  your  love 

travelled  alone  through  ages  and  worlds  in  search  of  me? 
that  when  you  found  me  at  last,  your  age-long  desire 
found  utter  peace  in  my  gentle  speech,  and  my  eyes  and  lips 
and  flowing  hair? 

Is  it  then  true 

that  the  mystery  of  the  Infinite  is  written  on  this  little  brow 

of  mine? 
Tell  me,  my  lover,  if  all  this  is  true! 

EX 

With  a  glance  of  your  eyes  you  could  plunder  all  the  wealth  of 

songs  struck  from  poets'  harps,  fair  woman! 
But  for  their  praises  you  have  no  ear;  therefore  do  I  come  to  praise 

you. 

You  could  humble  at  your  feet  the  proudest  heads  of  all  the  world; 
But  it  is  your  loved  ones,  unknown  to  fame,  whom  you  choose 

to  worship;  therefore  I  worship  you. 


334  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Your  perfect  arms  would  add  glory  to  kingly  splendor  with  their 

touch; 
But  you  use  them  to  sweep  away  the  dust,  and  to  make  clean 

your  humble  home;  therefore  I  am  filled  with  awe. 


Sara  Teasdale 

LEAVES 

One  by  one,  like  leaves  from  a  tree, 
All  my  faiths  have  forsaken  me; 
But  the  stars  above  my  head 
Burn  in  white  and  delicate  red, 
And  beneath  my  feet  the  earth 
Brings  the  sturdy  grass  to  birth. 
I  who  was  content  to  be 
But  a  silken-singing  tree, 
But  a  rustle  of  delight 
In  the  wistful  heart  of  night, 
I  have  lost  the  leaves  that  knew 
Touch  of  rain  and  weight  of  dew. 
Blinded  by  a  leafy  crown 
I  looked  neither  up  nor  down — 
But  the  little  leaves  that  die 
Have  left  me  room  to  see  the  sky; 
Now  for  the  first  time  I  know 
Stars  above  and  earth  below. 

MORNING 

I  went  out  on  an  April  morning 
All  alone,  for  my  heart  was  high. 

I  was  a  child  of  the  shining  meadow, 
I  was  a  sister  of  the  sky. 


SARA  TEASDALE  335 


There  in  the  windy  flood  of  morning 
Longing  lifted  its  weight  from  me, 

Lost  as  a  sob  in  the  midst  of  cheering, 
Swept  as  a  sea-bird  out  to  sea. 


THE  FLIGHT 

Look  back  with  longing  eyes  and  know  that  I  will  follow, 
Lift  me  up  in  your  love  as  a  light  wing  lifts  a  swallow, 
Let  our  flight  be  far  in  sun  or  windy  rain — 
Bid  what  if  I  heard  my  first  love  calling  me  again? 

Hold  me  on  your  heart  as  the  brave  sea  holds  the  foam, 
Take  me  far  away  to  the  hills  that  hide  your  home; 
Peace  shall  thatch  the  roof  and  love  shall  latch  the  door — 
But  what  if  I  heard  my  first  love  calling  me  once  more? 


OVER  THE  ROOFS 

I  said,  "I  have  shut  my  heart, 
As  one  shuts  an  open  door, 

That  Love  may  starve  therein 
And  trouble  me  no  more." 

But  over  the  roofs  there  came 
The  wet  new  wind  of  May, 

And  a  tune  blew  up  from  the  curb 
Where  the  street-pianos  play. 

My  room  was  white  with  the  sun 
And  Love  cried  out  in  me, 

"I  am  strong,  I  will  break  your  heart 
Unless  you  set  me  free." 


336  THE  NEW  POETRY 


DEBT 

What  do  I  owe  to  you 

Who  loved  me  deep  and  long? 

You  never  gave  my  spirits  wings 
Nor  gave  my  heart  a  song. 

But  oh,  to  him  I  loved, 

Who  loved  me  not  at  all, 
I  owe  the  little  gate 

That  led  through  heaven's  wall. 

SONGS  IN  A  HOSPITAL 

THE  BROKEN  FIELD 

My  soul  is  a  dark  ploughed  field 

In  the  cold  rain; 
My  soul  is  a  broken  field 

Ploughed  by  pain. 

Where  windy  grass  and  flowers 

Were  growing, 
The  field  lies  broken  now 

For  another  sowing. 

Great  Sower,  when  you  tread 

My  field  again, 
Scatter  the  furrows  there 

With  better  grain. 

OPEN  WINDOWS 

Out  of  the  window  a  sea  of  green  trees 

Lift  their  soft  boughs  like  arms  of  a  dancer; 

They  beckon  and  call  me,  "Come  out  in  the  sun!  " 
But  I  cannot  answer. 


SARA  TEASDALE  337 

I  am  alone  with  Weakness  and  Pain, 

Sick  abed  and  June  is  going, 
I  cannot  keep  her,  she  hurries  by 

With  the  silver-green  of  her  garments  blowing. 

Men  and  women  pass  in  the  street 

Glad  of  the  shining  sapphire  weather; 
But  we  know  more  of  it  than  they, 

Pain  and  I  together. 

They  are  the  runners  in  the  sun, 

Breathless  and  blinded  by  the  race, 
But  we  are  watchers  in  the  shade 

Who  speak  with  Wonder  face  to  face. 


AFTER  DEATH 

Now  while  my  lips  are  living 
Their  words  must  stay  unsaid, 

And  will  my  soul  remember 
To  speak  when  I  am  dead? 

Yet  if  my  soul  remembered 
You  would  not  heed  it,  dear, 

For  now  you  must  not  listen, 
And  then  you  could  not  hear. 


IN  MEMORIAM  F.  O.  S. 

You  go  a  long  and  lovely  journey, 
For  all  the  stars,  like  burning  dew, 

Are  luminous  and  luring  footprints 
Of  souls  adventurous  as  you. 


338  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Oh,  if  you  lived  on  earth  elated, 
How  is  it  now  that  you  can  run 

Free  of  the  weight  of  flesh  and  faring 
Far  past  the  birthplace  of  the  sun? 


SWALLOW  FLIGHT 

I  love  my  hour  of  wind  and  light, 
I  love  men's  faces  and  their  eyes, 

I  love  my  spirit's  veering  flight 
Like  swallows  under  evening  skies. 


THE  ANSWER 

When  I  go  back  to  earth 
And  all  my  joyous  body 
Puts  off  the  red  and  white 
That  once  had  been  so  proud, 
If  men  should  pass  above 
With  false  and  feeble  pity, 
My  dust  will  find  a  voice 
To  answer  them  aloud: 

"Be  still,  I  am  content, 

Take  back  your  poor  compassion! — 

Joy  was  a  flame  hi  me 

Too  steady  to  destroy. 

Lithe  as  a  bending  reed 

Loving  the  storm  that  sways  her — 

I  found  more  joy  in  sorrow 

Than  you  could  find  in  joy." 


EUNICE  TIETJENS  339 


Eunice  Tietjens 

THE  BACCHANTE  TO  HER  BABE 

Scherzo 

Come,  sprite,  and  dance!    The  sun  is  up, 
The  wind  runs  laughing  down  the  sky 
That  brims  with  morning  like  a  cup. 
Sprite,  we  must  race  him, 
We  must  chase  him — 
You  and  I! 

And  skim  across  the  fuzzy  heather — 
You  and  joy  and  I  together 
Whirling  by! 

You  merry  little  roll  of  fat! — 

Made  warm  to  kiss,  and  smooth  to  pat, 

And  round  to  toy  with,  like  a  cub; 

To  put  one's  nozzle  in  and  rub 

And  breathe  you  in  like  breath  of  kine, 

Like  juice  of  vine, 

That  sets  my  morning  heart  a-tingling, 

Dancing,  jingling, 

All  the  glad  abandon  mingling 

Of  wind  and  wine! 

Sprite,  you  are  love,  and  you  are  joy, 

A  happiness,  a  dream,  a  toy, 

A  god  to  laugh  with, 

Love  to  chaff  with, 

The  sun  come  down  hi  tangled  gold, 

The  moon  to  kiss,  and  spring  to  hold. 

There  was  a  time  once,  long  ago, 

Long — oh,  long  since  ...  I  scarcely  know. 


340  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Almost  I  had  forgot  .  .  . 

There  was  a  time  when  you  were  not, 

You  merry  sprite,  save  as  a  strain, 

The  strange  dull  pain 

Of  green  buds  swelling 

In  warm,  straight  dwelling 

That  must  burst  to  the  April  rain. 

A  little  heavy  I  was  then, 

And  dull — and  glad  to  rest.    And  when 

The  travail  came 

In  searing  flame  .  .  . 

But,  sprite,  that  was  so  long  ago! — 

A  century! — I  scarcely  know. 

Almost  I  had  forgot 

When  you  were  not. 

So,  little  sprite,  come  dance  with  me! 

The  sun  is  up,  the  wind  is  free! 

Come  now  and  trip  it, 

Romp  and  skip  it, 

Earth  is  young  and  so  are  we. 

Sprite,  you  and  I  will  dance  together 

On  the  heather, 

Glad  with  all  the  procreant  earth, 

With  all  the  fruitage  of  the  trees, 

And  golden  pollen  on  the  breeze, 

With  plants  that  bring  the  grain  to  birth, 

With  beast  and  bird, 

Feathered  and  furred, 

With  youth  and  hope  and  life  and  love, 

And  joy  thereof — 

While  we  are  part  of  all,  we  two — 

For  my  glad  burgeoning  in  you! 

So,  merry  little  roll  of  fat, 

Made  warm  to  kiss  and  smooth  to  pat 


EUNICE  TIETJENS  341 

And  round  to  toy  with,  like  a  cub, 

To  put  one's  nozzle  in  and  rub, 

My  god  to  laugh  with, 

Love  to  chaff  with, 

Come  and  dance  beneath  the  sky, 

You  and  I! 

Look  out  with  those  round  wondering  eyes, 

And  squirm,  and  gurgle — and  grow  wise! 


THE  STEAM  SHOVEL 

Beneath  my  window  in  a  city  street 

A  monster  lairs,  a  creature  huge  and  grim 

And  only  half  believed:  the  strength  of  him — 

Steel-strung  and  fit  to  meet 

The  strength  of  earth — 

Is  mighty  as  men's  dreams  that  conquer  force. 

Steam  belches  from  him.    He  is  the  new  birth 

Of  old  Behemoth,  late-sprung  from  the  source 

Whence  Grendel  sprang,  and  all  the  monster  clan 

Dead  for  an  age,  now  born  again  of  man. 

The  iron  head, 

Set  on  a  monstrous,  jointed  neck, 

Glides  here  and  there,  lifts,  settles  on  the  red 

Moist  floor,  with  nose  dropped  in  the  dirt,  at  beck 

Of  some  incredible  control. 

He  snorts,  and  pauses  couchant  for  a  space, 

Then  slowly  lifts,  and  tears  the  gaping  hole 

Yet  deeper  in  earth's  flank.    A  sudden  race 

Of  loosened  earth  and  pebbles  trickles  there 

Like  blood-drops  in  a  wound. 

But  he,  the  monster,  swings  his  load  around — 

Weightless  it  seems  as  air. 

His  mammoth  jaw 


342  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Drops  widely  open  with  a  rasping  sound, 
And  all  the  red  earth  vomits  from  his  maw. 


O  thwarted  monster,  born  at  man's  decree, 

A  lap-dog  dragon,  eating  from  his  hand 

And  doomed  to  fetch  and  carry  at  command, 

Have  you  no  longing  ever  to  be  free? 

In  warm,  electric  days  to  run  a-muck, 

Ranging  like  some  mad  dinosaur, 

Your  fiery  heart  at  war 

With  this  strange  world,  the  city's  restless  ruck, 

Where  all  drab  things  that  toil,  save  you  alone, 

Have  life; 

And  you  the  semblance  only,  and  the  strife? 

Do  you  not  yearn  to  rip  the  roots  of  stone 

Of  these  great  piles  men  build, 

And  hurl  them  down  with  shriek  of  shattered  steel, 

Scorning  your  own  sure  doom,  so  you  may  feel, 

You  too,  the  lust  with  which  your  fathers  killed? 

Or  is  your  soul  in  very  deed  so  tame, 

The  blood  of  Grendel  watered  to  a  gruel, 

That  you  are  well  content 

With  heart  of  flame 

Thus  placidly  to  chew  your  cud  of  fuel 

And  toil  in  peace  for  man's  aggrandizement? 

Poor  helpless  creature  of  a  half-grown  god, 

Blind  of  yourself  and  impotent! 

At  night, 

When  your  forerunners,  sprung  from  quicker  sod, 

Would  range  through  primal  woods,  hot  on  the  scent, 

Or  wake  the  stars  with  amorous  delight, 

You  stand,  a  soiled,  unwieldy  mass  of  steel, 

Black  in  the  arc-light,  modern  as  your  name, 

Dead  and  unsouled  and  trite; 

Till  I  must  feel 


EUNICE  TIETJENS  343 

A  quick  creator's  pity  for  your  shame: 

That  man,  who  made  you  and  who  gave  so  much, 

Yet  cannot  give  the  last  transforming  touch; 

That  with  the  work  he  cannot  give  the  wage — 

For  day,  no  joy  of  night, 

For  toil,  no  ecstasy  of  primal  rage. 


THE  GREAT  MAN 

I  cannot  always  feel  his  greatness. 

Sometimes  he  walks  beside  me,  step  by  step, 

And  paces  slowly  in  the  ways — 

The  simple,  wingless  ways 

That  my  thoughts  tread.    He  gossips  with  me  then, 

And  finds  it  good; 

Not  as  an  eagle  might,  his  great  wings  folded,  be  content 

To  walk  a  little,  knowing  it  his  choice, 

But  as  a  simple  man, 

My  friend. 

And  I  forget. 

Then  suddenly  a  call  floats  down 

From  the  clear  airy  spaces, 

The  great  keen,  lonely  heights  of  being. 

And  he  who  was  my  comrade  hears  the  call 

And  rises  from  my  side,  and  soars, 

Deep-chanting,  to  the  heights. 

Then  I  remember. 

And  my  upward  gaze  goes  with  him,  and  I  see 

Far  off  against  the  sky 

The  glint  of  golden  sunlight  on  his  wings. 


344  THE  NEW  POETRY 


Ridgely  Torrence 

THE  BIRD  AND  THE  TREE 

Blackbird,  blackbird  in  the  cage, 
There's  something  wrong  tonight. 
Far  off  the  sheriff's  footfaU  dies, 
The  minutes  crawl  like  last  year's  flies 
Between  the  bars,  and  like  an  age 
The  hours  are  long  tonight. 

The  sky  is  like  a  heavy  lid 

Out  here  beyond  the  door  tonight. 

What's  that?    A  mutter  down  the  street. 

What's  that?    The  sound  of  yells  and  feet. 

For  what  you  didn't  do  or  did 

You'll  pay  the  score  tonight. 

No  use  to  reek  with  reddened  sweat, 

No  use  to  whimper  and  to  sweat. 

They've  got  the  rope;  they've  got  the  guns, 

They've  got  the  courage  and  the  guns; 

And  that's  the  reason  why  tonight 

No  use  to  ask  them  any  more. 

They'll  fire  the  answer  through  the  door — 

You're  out  to  die  tonight. 

There  where  the  lonely  cross-road  lies, 
There  is  no  place  to  make  replies; 
But  silence,  inch  by  inch,  is  there, 
And  the  right  limb  for  a  lynch  is  there; 
And  a  lean  daw  waits  for  both  your  eyes, 
Blackbird. 

Perhaps  you'll  meet  again  some  place. 
Look  for  the  mask  upon  the  face: 
That's  the  way  you'll  know  them  there — 


RIDGELY  TORRENCE  345 

A  white  mask  to  hide  the  face. 
And  you  can  halt  and  show  them  there 
The  things  that  they  are  deaf  to  now, 
And  they  can  tell  you  what  they  meant — 
To  wash  the  blood  with  blood.    But  how 
If  you  are  innocent? 

Blackbird  singer,  blackbird  mute, 

They  choked  the  seed  you  might  have  found. 

Out  of  a  thorny  field  you  go — 

For  you  it  may  be  better  so — 

And  leave  the  sowers  of  the  ground 

To  eat  the  harvest  of  the  fruit, 

Blackbird. 

THE  SON 

Southern  Ohio  Market  Town 

I  heard  an  old  farm-wife, 

Selling  some  barley, 
Mingle  her  life  with  life 

And  the  name  "Charley." 

Saying:  "The  crop's  all  in, 

We're  about  through  now; 
Long  nights  will  soon  begin, 

We're  just  us  two  now. 

"Twelve  bushel  at  sixty  cents, 

It's  all  I  carried — 
He  sickened  making  fence; 

He  was  to  be  married — 

"It  feels  like  frost  was  near — 

His  hair  was  curly. 
The  spring  was  late  that  year, 

But  the  harvest  early." 


346  THE  NEW  POETRY 


Charles  Hanson  Towne 

BEYOND  THE  STARS 

Three  days  I  heard  them  grieve  when  I  lay  dead, 
(It  was  so  strange  to  me  that  they  should  weep!) 
Tall  candles  burned  about  me  in  the  dark, 
And  a  great  crucifix  was  on  my  breast, 
And  a  great  silence  filled  the  lonesome  room. 

I  heard  one  whisper,  "Lo!  the  dawn  is  breaking, 

And  he  has  lost  the  wonder  of  the  day." 

Another  came  whom  I  had  loved  on  earth, 

And  kissed  my  brow  and  brushed  my  dampened  hair. 

Softly  she  spoke:  "Oh,  that  he  should  not  see 

The  April  that  his  spirit  bathed  in!    Birds 

Are  singing  in  the  orchard,  and  the  grass 

That  soon  will  cover  him  is  growing  green. 

The  daisies  whken  on  the  emerald  hills, 

And  the  immortal  magic  that  he  loved 

Wakens  again — and  he  has  fallen  asleep." 

Another  said:  "Last  night  I  saw  the  moon 

Like  a  tremendous  lantern  shine  in  heaven, 

And  I  could  only  think  of  him — and  sob. 

For  I  remembered  evenings  wonderful 

When  he  was  faint  with  Life's  sad  loveliness, 

And  watched  the  silver  ribbons  wandering  far 

Along  the  shore,  and  out  upon  the  sea. 

Oh,  I  remembered  how  he  loved  the  world, 

The  sighing  ocean  and  the  flaming  stars, 

The  everlasting  glamour  God  has  given — 

His  tapestries  that  wrap  the  earth's  wide  room. 

I  minded  me  of  mornings  filled  with  rain 

When  he  would  sit  and  listen  to  the  sound 

As  if  it  were  lost  music  from  the  spheres. 


CHARLES  HANSON  TOWNE          347 

He  loved  the  crocus  and  the  hawthorn-hedge, 
He  loved  the  shining  gold  of  buttercups, 
And  the  low  droning  of  the  drowsy  bees 
That  boomed  across  the  meadows.    He  was  glad 
At  dawn  or  sundown;  glad  when  Autumn  came 
With  her  worn  livery  and  scarlet  crown, 
And  glad  when  Winter  rocked  the  earth  to  rest. 
Strange  that  he  sleeps  today  when  Life  is  young, 
And  the  wild  banners  of  the  Spring  are  blowing 
With  green  inscriptions  of  the  old  delight." 

I  heard  them  whisper  in  the  quiet  room. 

I  longed  to  open  then  my  sealed  eyes, 

And  tell  them  of  the  glory  that  was  mine. 

There  was  no  darkness  where  my  spirit  flew, 

There  was  no  night  beyond  the  teeming  world. 

Their  April  was  like  winter  where  I  roamed; 

Their  flowers  were  like  stones  where  now  I  fared. 

Earth's  day!  it  was  as  if  I  had  not  known 

What  sunlight  meant!  .  .  .  Yea,  even  as  they  grieved 

For  all  that  I  had  lost  in  their  pale  place, 

I  swung  beyond  the  borders  of  the  sky, 

And  floated  through  the  clouds,  myself  the  air, 

Myself  the  ether,  yet  a  matchless  being 

Whom  God  had  snatched  from  penury  and  pain 

To  draw  across  the  barricades  of  heaven. 

I  clomb  beyond  the  sun,  beyond  the  moon; 

In  flight  on  flight  I  touched  the  highest  star; 

I  plunged  to  regions  where  the  Spring  is  born, 

Myself  (I  asked  not  how)  the  April  wind, 

Myself  the  elements  that  are  of  God. 

Up  flowery  stairways  of  eternity 

I  whirled  in  wonder  and  untrammeled  joy, 

An  atom,  yet  a  portion  of  His  dream — 

His  dream  that  knows  no  end.  .  .  . 

I  was  the  rain, 


348  THE  NEW  POETRY 

I  was  the  dawn,  I  was  the  purple  east, 

I  was  the  moonlight  on  enchanted  nights, 

(Yet  time  was  lost  to  me) ;  I  was  a  flower 

For  one  to  pluck  who  loved  me;  I  was  bliss, 

And  rapture,  splendid  moments  of  delight; 

And  I  was  prayer,  and  solitude,  and  hope; 

And  always,  always,  always  I  was  love. 
.    I  tore  asunder  flimsy  doors  of  time, 

And  through  the  windows  of  my  soul's  new  sight 

I  saw  beyond  the  ultimate  bounds  of  space. 

I  was  all  things  that  I  had  loved  on  earth — 

The  very  moonbeam  in  that  quiet  room, 

The  very  sunlight  one  had  dreamed  I  lost, 

The  soul  of  the  returning  April  grass, 

The  spirit  of  the  evening  and  the  dawn, 

The  perfume  in  unnumbered  hawthorn-blooms. 

There  was  no  shadow  on  my  perfect  peace, 

No  knowledge  that  was  hidden  from  my  heart. 
.    I  learned  what  music  meant;  I  read  the  years; 

I  found  where  rainbows  hide,  where  tears  begin; 

I  trod  the  precincts  of  things  yet  unborn. 

Yea,  while  I  found  all  wisdom  (being  dead), 

They  grieved  for  me  ...  I  should  have  grieved  for  them! 


Louis  Untermeyer 

LANDSCAPES 

The  rain  was  over,  and  the  brilliant  air 
Made  every  little  blade  of  grass  appear 
Vivid  and  startling — everything  was  there 
With  sharpened  outlines,  eloquently  clear, 
As  though  one  saw  it  in  a  crystal  sphere. 


LOUIS  UNTERMEYER  349 

The  rusty  sumac  with  its  struggling  spires; 
The  golden-rod  with  all  its  million  fires 
(A  million  torches  swinging  in  the  wind) ; 
A  single  poplar,  marvellously  thinned, 
Half  like  a  naked  boy,  half  like  a  sword; 
Clouds,  like  the  haughty  banners  of  the  Lord; 
A  group  of  pansies  with  their  shrewish  faces, 
Little  old  ladies  cackling  over  laces; 
The  quaint,  unhurried  road  that  curved  so  well; 
The  prim  petunias  with  their  rich,  rank  smell; 
The  lettuce-birds,  the  creepers  in  the  field — 
How  bountifully  were  they  all  revealed! 
How  arrogantly  each  one  seemed  to  thrive — 
So  frank  and  strong,  so  radiantly  alive! 

And  over  all  the  morning-minded  earth 
There  seemed  to  spread  a  sharp  and  kindling  mirth, 
Piercing  the  stubborn  stones  until  I  saw 
The  toad  face  heaven  without  shame  or  awe, 
The  ant  confront  the  stars,  and  every  weed 
Grow  proud  as  though  it  bore  a  royal  seed; 
While  all  the  things  that  die  and  decompose 
Sent  forth  their  bloom  as  richly  as  the  rose.  .  .  . 
Oh,  what  a  liberal  power  that  made  them  thrive 
And  keep  the  very  dirt  that  died,  alive. 

And  now  I  saw  the  slender  willow-tree 
No  longer  calm  or  drooping  listlessly, 
Letting  its  languid  branches  sway  and  fall 
As  though  it  danced  in  some  sad  ritual; 
But  rather  like  a  young,  athletic  girl, 
Fearless  and  gay,  her  hair  all  out  of  curl, 
And  flying  in  the  wind — her  head  thrown  back, 
Her  arms  flung  up,  her  garments  flowing  slack, 
And  all  her  rushing  spirits  running  over.  .  .  . 
What  made  a  sober  tree  seem  such  a  rover — 


350  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Or  made  the  staid  and  stalwart  apple-trees, 
That  stood  for  years  knee-deep  in  velvet  peace, 
Turn  all  their  fruit  to  little  worlds  of  flame, 
And  burn  the  trembling  orchard  there  below? 
What  lit  the  heart  of  every  golden-glow — 
Oh,  why  was  nothing  weary,  dull,  or  tame?  .  .  . 
Beauty  it  was,  and  keen,  compassionate  mirth 
That  drives  the  vast  and  energetic  earth. 

And,  with  abrupt  and  visionary  eyes, 

I  saw  the  huddled  tenements  arise. 

Here  where  the  merry  clover  danced  and  shone 

Sprang  agonies  of  iron  and  of  stone; 

There,  where  green  Silence  laughed  or  stood  enthralled, 

Cheap  music  blared  and  evil  alleys  sprawled. 

The  roaring  avenues,  the  shrieking  mills; 

Brothels  and  prisons  on  those  kindly  hills — 

The  menace  of  these  things  swept  over  me; 

A  threatening,  unconquerable  sea.  .  .  . 

A  stirring  landscape  and  a  generous  earth! 
Freshening  courage  and  benevolent  mirth — 
And  then  the  city,  like  a  hideous  sore.  .  .  . 
Good  God,  and  what  is  all  this  beauty  for? 

"FEUERZAUBER" 

I  never  knew  the  earth  had  so  much  gold — 
The  fields  run  over  with  it,  and  this  hill 

Hoary  and  old, 
Is  young  with  buoyant  blooms  that  flame  and  thrilL 

Such  golden  fires,  such  yellow — lo,  how  good 
This  spendthrift  world,  and  what  a  lavish  God — 

This  fringe  of  wood, 

Blazing  with  buttercup  and  goldenrod. 


LOUIS  UNTERMEYER  351 

You  too,  beloved,  are  changed.    Again  I  see 

Your  face  grow  mystical,  as  on  that  night 
You  turned  to  me, 

And  all  the  trembling  world — and  you — were  white. 

Aye,  you  are  touched;  your  singing  lips  grow  dumb; 

The  fields  absorb  you,  color  you  entire.  .  .  . 
And  you  become 

A  goddess  standing  in  a  world  of  fire! 


ON  THE  BIRTH  OF  A  CHILD 

Jerome  Epstein — August  8,  1912 

Lo — to  the  battle-ground  of  life, 

Child,  you  have  come,  like  a  conquering  shout, 
Out  of  a  struggle — into  strife; 

Out  of  a  darkness — into  doubt. 

Girt  with  the  fragile  armor  of  youth, 
Child,  you  must  ride  into  endless  wars, 

With  the  sword  of  protest,  the  buckler  of  truth, 
And  a  banner  of  love  to  sweep  the  stars. 

About  you  the  world's  despair  will  surge; 

Into  defeat  you  must  plunge  and  grope — 
Be  to  the  faltering  an  urge; 

Be  to  the  hopeless  years  a  hope! 

Be  to  the  darkened  world  a  flame; 

Be  to  its  unconcern  a  blow — 
For  out  of  its  pain  and  tumult  you  came, 

And  into  its  tumult  and  pain  you  go. 


352  THE  NEW  POETRY 


IRONY 

Why  are  the  things  that  have  no  death 

The  ones  with  neither  sight  nor  breath! 

Eternity  is  thrust  upon 

A  bit  of  earth,  a  senseless  stone. 

A  grain  of  dust,  a  casual  clod 

Receives  the  greatest  gift  of  God. 

A  pebble  in  the  roadway  lies — 

It  never  dies. 

The  grass  our  fathers  cut  away 
Is  growing  on  their  graves  to-day; 
The  tiniest  brooks  that  scarcely  flow 
Eternally  will  come  and  go. 
There  is  no  kind  of  death  to  kill 
The  sands  that  lie  so  meek  and  still.  .  .  . 
But  Man  is  great  and  strong  and  wise — 
And  so  he  dies. 


Allen  Upward 
SCENTED  LEAVES  FROM  A  CHINESE  JAR 

THE  ACACIA  LEAVES 

The  aged  man,  when  he  beheld  winter  approaching,  counted 
the  leaves  as  they  lapsed  from  the  acacia  trees;  while  his  son  was 
talking  of  the  spring.  , 

THE  BITTER  PURPLE  WILLOWS 

Meditating  on  the  glory  of  illustrious  lineage  I  lifted  up  my  eyes 
and  beheld  the  bitter  purple  willows  growing  round  the  tombs  of 
the  exalted  Mings. 


ALLEN  UPWARD  353 

THE  CORAL  FISHER 

The  coral  fisher,  who  had  been  a  long  time  beneath  the  water, 
rose  to  the  surface  with  nothing  in  his  hand  but  a  spray  of  crimson 
seaweed.  In  answer  to  the  master  of  the  junk  he  said,  "While  I 
was  in  the  world  of  fishes  this  miserable  weed  appeared  to  me  more 
beautiful  than  coral." 

THE  DIAMOND 

The  poet  Wong,  after  he  had  delighted  a  company  of  mandarins 
at  a  feast,  sat  silent  in  the  midst  of  his  household.  He  explained, 
"The  diamond  sparkles  only  when  it  is  in  the  light." 

THE  ESTUARY 

Some  one  complained  to  the  Master,  "After  many  lessons  I  do 
not  fully  understand  your  doctrine."  In  response  the  Master 
pointed  to  the  tide  in  the  mouth  of  the  river,  and  asked,  "How 
wide  is  the  sea  in  this  place?" 

THE  INTOXICATED  POET 

A  poet,  having  taken  the  bridle  off  his  tongue,  spoke  thus: 
"More  fragrant  than  the  heliotrope,  which  blooms  all  the  year 
round,  better  than  vermilion  letters  on  tablets  of  sendal,  are  thy 
kisses,  thou  shy  one!" 

THE  JONQUILS 

I  have  heard  that  a  certain  princess,  when  she  found  that  she 
had  been  married  by  a  demon,  wove  a  wreath  of  jonquils  and  sent 
it  to  the  lover  of  former  days. 

THE  MARIGOLD 

Even  as  the  seed  of  the  marigold,  carried  by  the  wind,  lodges 
on  the  roofs  of  palaces,  and  lights  the  air  with  flame-colored 
blossoms,  so  may  the  child-like  words  of  the  insignificant  poet 
confer  honor  on  lofty  and  disdainful  mandarins, 


354  THE  NEW   POETRY 


THE  MERMAID 

The  sailor  boy  who  leant  over  the  side  of  the  Junk  of  Many 
Pearls,  and  combed  the  green  tresses  of  the  sea  with  his  ivory 
fingers,  believing  that  he  had  heard  the  voice  of  a  mermaid,  cast 
his  body  down  between  the  waves. 

THE  MIDDLE  KINGDOM 

The  emperors  of  fourteen  dynasties,  clad  in  robes  of  yellow  silk 
embroidered  with  the  Dragon,  wearing  gold  diadems  set  with 
pearls  and  rubies,  and  seated  on  thrones  of  incomparable  ivory, 
have  ruled  over  the  Middle  Kingdom  for  four  thousand  years. 

THE  MILKY  WAY 

My  mother  taught  me  that  every  night  a  procession  of  junks 
carrying  lanterns  moves  silently  across  the  sky,  and  the  water 
sprinkled  from  their  paddles  falls  to  the  earth  in  the  form  of  dew. 
I  no  longer  believe  that  the  stars  are  junks  carrying  lanterns,  no 
longer  that  the  dew  is  shaken  from  their  oars. 

THE  ONION 

The  child  who  threw  away  leaf  after  leaf  of  the  many-coated 
onion,  to  get  to  the  sweet  heart,  found  in  the  end  that  he  had 
thrown  away  the  heart  itself. 

THE  SEA-SHELL 

To  the  passionate  lover,  whose  sighs  come  back  to  him  on  every 
breeze,  all  the  world  is  like  a  murmuring  sea-shell. 

THE  STUPID  KITE 

A  kite,  while  devouring  a  skylark,  complained,  "Had  I  known 
that  thy  flesh  was  no  sweeter  than  that  of  a  sparrow  I  should  have 
listened  longer  to  thy  delicious  notes." 


JOHN  HALL  WHEELOCK  355 


THE   WINDMILL 


The  exquisite  painter  Ko-tsu  was  often  reproached  by  an  in- 
dustrious friend  for  his  fits  of  idleness.  At  last  he  excused  himself 
by  saying,  "You  are  a  watermill — a  windmill  can  grind  only  when 
the  wind  blows." 


THE  WORD 


The  first  tune  the  emperor  Han  heard  a  certain  Word  he  said, 
"It  is  strange."  The  second  time  he  said,  "It  is  divine."  The 
third  time  he  said,  "Let  the  speaker  be  put  to  death." 


John  Hall  Wheelock 


SUNDAY  EVENING  IN  THE  COMMON 

Look — on  the  topmost  branches  of  the  world 
The  blossoms  of  the  myriad  stars  are  thick; 
Over  the  huddled  rows  of  stone  and  brick 

A  few  sad  wisps  of  empty  smoke  are  curled 
Like  ghosts,  languid  and  sick. 

One  breathless  moment  now  the  city's  moaning 
Fades,  and  the  endless  streets  seem  vague  and  dim; 
There  is  no  sound  around  the  world's  rim, 

Save  in  the  distance  a  small  band  is  droning 
Some  desolate  old  hymn. 

Van  Wyck,  how  often  have  we  been  together 
When  this  same  moment  made  all  mysteries  clear — 
The  infinite  stars  that  brood  above  us  here, 

And  the  gray  city  in  the  soft  June  weather, 
So  tawdry  and  so  dear! 


356  THE  NEW  POETRY 


SPRING 

The  air  is  full  of  dawn  and  spring; 

Outside  the  room  I  see 
A  swallow,  like  a  shaft  of  light, 

Shift  sideways  suddenly. 

There  is  no  room  for  death  at  all 

In  earth  or  heaven  above; 
He  never  yet  believed  in  death 

Who  ever  learned  to  love. 

Build  me  a  tomb  when  I  am  dead, 

But  leave  a  window  free 
That  I  may  watch  the  swallow's  flight, 

And  spring  come  back  to  me. 

Build  me  a  tomb  of  steel  and  stone, 

But  leave  one  window  free, 
That  I  may  feel  the  spring  come  back — 

And  you  come  back  to  me! 


LIKE  MUSIC 

Your  body's  motion  is  like  music; 

Her  stride  ecstatical  and  bright 
Moves  to  the  rhythm  of  dumb  music, 

The  unheard  music  of  delight. 

The  silent  splendor  of  the  creation 

Speaks  through  your  body's  stately  strength, 
And  the  lithe  harmony  of  beauty 

Undulates  through  its  lovely  length. 


JOHN  HALL  WHEELOCK  357 

And  rhythmically  your  bosom's  arches, 

Alternately,  with  every  breath 
Lift  lifeward  in  long  lines  of  beauty 

And  lapse  along  the  slopes  of  death. 

THE  THUNDER-SHOWER 

The  lightning  flashed,  and  lifted 

The  lids  of  heaven  apart, 
The  fiery  thunder  rolled  you 

All  night  long  through  my  heart. 

From  dreams  of  you  at  dawn 

I  rose  to  the  window  ledge: 
The  storm  had  passed  away, 

The  lake  lapped  on  the  sedge. 

The  lyre  of  heaven  trembled 

Still  with  the  thought  of  you, 
The  twilight  on  the  waters, 

And  all  my  spirit,  too. 

SONG 

All  my  love  for  my  sweet 

I  bared  one  day  to  her.  * 

Carelessly  she  took  it, 

And  like  a  conqueror 
She  bowed  the  neck  of  my  soul 

To  fit  it  to  her  yoke, 
And  bridled  the  lips  of  Song — 

Fear  within  me  awoke! 
But  Love  cried:  "Swiftly,  swiftly 

Bear  her  along  the  road; 
Beautiful  is  the  goal 

And  Beauty  is  the  goad." 


3$8  THE  NEW  POETRY 

ALONE 

Ah,  never  in  all  my  life 

Have  I  ever  fled  away 
From  the  loneliness  that  follows 

My  spirit  night  and  day! 

Though  I  fly  to  the  dearest  face, 
It  follows  without  rest — 

To  the  kind  heart  of  love, 
And  the  beloved  breast. 

Though  I  walk  amid  the  crowd, 

Still  I  walk  apart; 
Alone,  alone  I  lie 

Even  at  the  loved  one's  heart. 

NIRVANA 

Sleep  on — I  lie  at  heaven's  high  oriels, 
Over  the  stars  that  murmur  as  they  go 
Lighting  your  lattice-window  far  below. 

And  every  star  some  of  the  glory  spells 
Whereof  I  know. 

I  have  forgotten  you,  long  long  ago; 

Like  the  sweet,  silver  singing  of  thin  bells 
Vanished,  or  music  fading  faint  and  low. 

Sleep  on — I  lie  at  heaven's  high  oriels, 
Who  loved  you  so. 

TRIUMPH  OF  THE  SINGER 

I  shake  my  hair  hi  the  wind  of  morning 

For  the  joy  within  me  that  knows  no  bounds. 

I  echo  backward  the  vibrant  beauty 

Wherewith  heaven's  hollow  lute  resounds.  * 


HERVEY  WHITE  359 

I  shed  my  song  on  the  feet  of  all  men, 

On  the  feet  of  all  shed  out  like  wine; 
On  the  whole  and  the  hurt  I  shed  my  bounty, 

The  beauty  within  me  that  is  not  mine. 

Turn  not  away  from  my  song,  nor  scorn  me, 

Who  bear  the  secret  that  holds  the  sky 
And  the  stars  together;  but  know  within  me 

There  speaks  another  more  wise  than  I. 

Nor  spurn  me  here  from  your  heart  to  hate  me, 

Yet  hate  me  here  if  you  will.    Not  so 
Myself  you  hate,  but  the  love  within  me 

That  loves  you  whether  you  would  or  no. 

Here  love  returns  with  love  to  the  lover 

And  beauty  unto  the  heart  thereof, 
And  hatred  unto  the  heart  of  the  hater, 

Whether  he  would  or  no,  with  love! 


Hervey  White 

LAST  NIGHT 

Last  night  the  full  moon  laid  a  cloth  of  white 
Within  my  window,  spread  upon  my  bed, 
And,  with  her  old-time  splendor,  asked  of  me 
To  share  her  harvest  supper.    I  arose, 
And  stepped  without  to  pay  my  greetings.    When, 

Behold! 

The  old  world  flowered  again,  as  it  had  done 
When  I  was  twenty,  at  the  gate  of  life; 
The  meadows  held  untouched  their  virgin  bloom, 
The  darkling  trees  with  gleaming  leaves  flashed  bright, 


360  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Dewy  and  pendant  till  the  waiting  morn; 

The  shadows  lay  like  cool  soft  soothing  hands 

Upon  the  pastures  pulsing  with  sweet  June: 

I,  too,  was  young  again,  and  God  was  just, 

And  through  my  blood  propelled  great  future  acts — 

Big  things  to  do,  and  thoughts,  and  voice  to  speak — 

So  potent  was  the  charm  of  my  white  queen. 

It  was  not  till  I  walked  for  many  miles, 

And  came  back  weary  to  my  quiet  room, 

That  I  had  once  more  taken  back  my  years, 

My  cares,  my  listlessness,  and  stagnant  grief. 

And,  even  as  I  sit  in  full  faced  day, 

My  memory  faintly  shadows  out  this  song. 

I  SAW  THE  CLOUDS 

I  saw  the  clouds  among  the  hills 
Trailing  their  plumes  of  rainy  gray. 

The  purple  of  the  woods  behind 
Fell  down  to  where  the  valley  lay 

In  sweet  satiety  of  rain, 

With  ripened  fruit,  and  full  filled  grain. 

I  saw  the  graves,  upon  the  plain, 
Of  pioneers,  who  took  the  land, 

And  tamed  the  stubborn  elements 
Till  they  were  gentle  to  the  hand. 

Their  children,  now  in  fortune's  ways, 

Dwell  in  their  father's  palaces. 

I  saw  some  old  forgotten  lays; 

And  treasured  volumes  I  passed  by. 
They  were  but  repetitions  cheap 

For  any  hucksterer  to  buy. 
The  clouds,  the  graves,  the  worn  old  song, 
I  bear  them  in  my  heart  along. 


MARGARET  WIDDEMER  361 


Margaret  Widdemer 

THE  BEGGARS 

The  little  pitiful,  worn,  laughing  faces, 
Begging  of  Life  for  Joy! 

I  saw  the  little  daughters  of  the  poor, 

Tense  from  the  long  day's  working,  strident,  gay, 

Hurrying  to  the  picture-place.    There  curled 

A  hideous  flushed  beggar  at  the  door, 

Trading  upon  his  horror,  eyeless,  maimed, 

Complacent  in  his  profitable  mask. 

They  mocked  his  horror,  but  they  gave  to  him 

From  the  brief  wealth  of  pay-night,  and  went  in 

To  the  cheap  laughter  and  the  tawdry  thoughts 

Thrown  on  the  screen;  in  to  the  seeking  hand 

Covered  by  darkness,  to  the  luring  voice 

Of  Horror,  boy-masked,  whispering  of  rings, 

Of  silks,  of  feathers,  bought — so  cheap! — with  just 

Their  slender  starved  child-bodies,  palpitant 

For  beauty,  laughter,  passion — that  is  life: 

(A  frock  of  satin  for  an  hour's  shame, 

A  coat  of  fur  for  two  days'  servitude; 

"And  the  clothes  last,"  the  thought  runs  on,  within 

The  poor  warped  girl-minds  drugged  with  changeless  days; 

"Who  cares  or  knows  after  the  hour  is  done?") 

— Poor  little  beggars  at  Life's  door  for  Joy! 

The  old  man  crouched  there,  eyeless,  horrible, 

Complacent  in  the  marketable  mask 

That  earned  his  comforts — and  they  gave  to  him! 

But  ah,  the  little  painted,  wistful  faces 
Questioning  Life  for  Joy! 


362  THE  NEW  POETRY 


TERESINA'S  FACE 

He  saw  it  last  of  all  before  they  herded  in  the  steerage, 
Dark  against  the  sunset  where  he  lingered  by  the  hold, 

The  tear-stained  dusk-rose  face  of  her,  the  little  Teresina, 
Sailing  out  to  lands  of  gold: 

Ah,  the  days  were  long,  long  days,  still  toiling  in  the  vineyard, 
Working  for  the  coins  that  set  him  free  to  go  to  her, 

Where  gay  it  glowed,  the  flower  face  of  little  Teresina, 
Where  the  joy  and  riches  were: 

Hard  to  find  one  rose-face  where  the  dark  rose-faces  cluster, 
Where  the  outland  laws  are  strange  and  outland  voices  hum, 

(Only  one  lad's  hoping,  and  the  word  of  Teresina, 
Who  would  wait  for  him  to  come!) 


God  grant  he  may  not  find  her,  since  he  might  not  win  her  freedom, 

Nor  yet  be  great  enough  to  love,  in  such  marred,  captive  wise, 
The  patient,  painted  face  of  her,  the  little  Teresina, 
With  its  cowed,  all-knowing  eyes! 


GREEK  FOLK  SONG 

Under  dusky  laurel  leaf, 

Scarlet  leaf  of  rose, 
I  lie  prone,  who  have  known 

All  a  woman  knows. 

Love  and  grief  and  motherhood, 
Fame  and  mirth  and  scorn — 

These  are  all  shall  befall 
Any  woman  born. 


FLORENCE  WILKINSON  363 

Jewel-laden  are  my  hands, 

Tall  my  stone  above — 
Do  not  weep  that  I  sleep, 

Who  was  wise  in  love. 


Where  I  walk,  a  shadow  gray 
Through  gray  asphodel, 

I  am  glad,  who  have  had 
All  that  life  can  tell. 


Florence  Wilkinson 

OUR  LADY  OF  IDLENESS 

They  in  the  darkness  gather  and  ask 

Her  name,  the  mistress  of  their  endless  task. 


The  Toilers 

Tinsel-makers  in  factory  gloom, 

Miners  in  ethylene  pits, 

Divers  and  druggists  mixing  poisonous  bloom; 

Huge  hunters,  men  of  brawn, 

Half-naked  creatures  of  the  tropics, 

Furred  trappers  stealing  forth  at  Labrador  dawn; 

Catchers  of  beetles,  sheep-men  in  bleak  sheds, 
Pearl-fishers  perched  on  Indian  coasts, 
Children  in  stifling  towers  pulling  threads; 

Dark  bunchy  women  pricking  intricate  laces, 

Myopic  jewelers'  apprentices, 

Arabs  who  chase  the  long-legged  birds  in  sandy  places: 


364  THE  NEW  POETRY 

They  are  her  invisible  slaves, 

The  genii  of  her  costly  wishes, 

Climbing,  descending,  running  under  waves. 

They  strip  earth's  dimmest  cell, 
They  burn  and  drown  and  stifle 
To  build  her  inconceivable  and  fragile  shell. 


The  Artist-Artisans 

They  have  painted  a  miracle-shawl 
Of  cobwebs  and  whispering  shadows, 
And  trellised  leaves  that  ripple  on  a  wall. 

They  have  broidered  a  tissue  of  cost, 

Spun  foam  of  the  sea 

And  lilied  imagery  of  the  vanishing  frost. 

Her  floating  skirts  have  run 

Like  iridescent  marshes, 

Or  like  the  tossed  hair  of  a  stormy  sun. 

Her  silver  cloak  has  shone 
Blue  as  a  mummy's  beads, 
Green  as  the  ice-glints  of  an  Arctic  zone. 


She  is  weary  and  has  lain 

At  last  her  body  down. 

What,  with  her  clothing's  beauty,  they  have  slain! 

The  Angel  With  the  Sword 
Come,  brothers,  let  us  lift 
Her  pitiful  body  on  high, 
Her  tight-shut  hands  that  take  to  heaven  no  gift 


FLORENCE  WILKINSON  365 

But  ashes  of  costly  things. 

We  seven  archangels  will 

Bear  her  in  silence  on  our  flame-tipped  wings. 


The  Toilers 

Lo,  she  is  thinner  than  fire 

On  a  burned  mill-town's  edge, 

And  smaller  than  a  young  child's  dead  desire. 

Yea,  emptier  than  the  wage 

Of  a  spent  harlot  crying  for  her  beauty, 

And  grayer  than  the  mumbling  lips  of  age. 

A  Lost  Girl 

White  as  a  drowned  one's  feet 

Twined  with  the  wet  sea-bracken, 

And  naked  as  a  Sin  driven  from  God's  littlest  street. 


STUDENTS 

John  Brown  and  Jeanne  at  Fontainebleau — 
'Twas  Toussaint,  just  a  year  ago; 
Crimson  and  copper  was  the  glow 
Of  all  the  woods  at  Fontainebleau. 
They  peered  into  that  ancient  well, 
And  watched  the  slow  torch  as  it  fell. 
John  gave  the  keeper  two  whole  sous, 
And  Jeanne  that  smile  with  which  she  woos 
John  Brown  to  folly.    So  they  lose 
The  Paris  train.    But  never  mind! — 
All-Saints  are  rustling  in  the  wind, 
And  there's  an  inn,  a  crackling  fire — 
(It's  deux-cinquante,  but  Jeanne's  desire); 
There's  dinner,  candles,  country  wine, 
Jeanne's  lips — philosophy  divine! 


366  THE  NEW  POETRY 

There  was  a  bosquet  at  Saint  Cloud 
Wherein  John's  picture  of  her  grew 
To  be  a  Salon  masterpiece — 
Till  the  rain  fell  that  would  not  cease. 
Through  one  long  alley  how  they  raced! — • 
'Twas  gold  and  brown,  and  all  a  waste 
Of  matted  leaves,  moss-interlaced. 
Shades  of  mad  queens  and  hunter-kings 
And  thorn-sharp  feet  of  dryad-things 
Were  company  to  their  wanderings; 
Then  rain  and  darkness  on  them  drew. 
The  rich  folks'  motors  honked  and  flew. 
They  hailed  an  old  cab,  heaven  for  two; 
The  bright  Champs-Elysees  at  last- 
Though  the  cab  crawled  it  sped  too  fast. 

Paris,  upspringing  white  and  gold: 
Flamboyant  arch  and  high-enscrolled 
War-sculpture,  big,  Napoleonic — 
Fierce  chargers,  angels  histrionic; 
The  royal  sweep  of  gardened  spaces, 
The  pomp  and  whirl  of  columned  Places; 
The  Rive  Gauche,  age-old,  gay  and  gray; 
The  impasse  and  the  loved  cafe; 
The  tempting  tidy  little  shops; 
The  convent  walls,  the  glimpsed  tree-tops; 
Book-stalls,  old  men  like  dwarfs  in  plays; 
Talk,  work,  and  Latin  Quarter  ways. 

May — Robinson's,  the  chestnut  trees — 
Were  ever  crowds  as  gay  as  these? 
The  quick  pale  waiters  on  a  run, 
The  round  green  tables,  one  by  one, 
Hidden  away  in  amorous  bowers — 
Lilac,  laburnum's  golden  showers. 
Kiss,  clink  of  glasses,  laughter  heard, 


MARGUERITE  WILKINSON  367 

And  nightingales  quite  undeterred. 

And  then  that  last  extravagance — 

O  Jeanne,  a  single  amber  glance 

Will  pay  him! — "Let's  play  millionaire 

For  just  two  hours — on  princely  fare, 

At  some  hotel  where  lovers  dine 

2i  deux  and  pledge  across  the  wine!" 

They  find  a  damask  breakfast-room, 

Where  stiff  silk  roses  range  their  bloom. 

The  garfon  has  a  splendid  way 

Of  bearing  in  grand  dejeuner. 

Then  to  be  left  alone,  alone, 

High  up  above  Rue  Castiglione; 

Curtained  away  from  all  the  rude 

Rumors,  in  silken  solitude; 

And,  John,  her  head  upon  your  knees — 

Time  waits  for  moments  such  as  these. 


Marguerite  Wilkinson 

A  WOMAN'S  BELOVED 

A  Psalm 

To  what  shall  a  woman  liken  her  beloved, 

And  with  what  shall  she  compare  him  to  do  him  honor? 

He  is  like  the  close-folded  new  leaves  of  the  woodbine,  odorless, 

but  sweet, 

Flushed  with  a  new  and  swiftly  rising  life, 
Strong  to  grow  and  give  glad  shade  in  summer. 
Even  thus  should  a  woman's  beloved  shelter  her  in  time  of  anguish. 

And  he  is  like  the  young  robin,  eager  to  try  his  wings, 
For  within  soft-stirring  wings  of  the  spirit  has  she  cherished  him, 
And  with  the  love  of  the  mother  bird  shall  she  embolden  him,  that 
his  flight  may  avail. 


368  THE  NEW  POETRY 

A  woman's  beloved  is  to  her  as  the  roots  of  the  willow, 
Long,  strong,  white  roots,  bedded  lovingly  in  the  dark. 
Into  the  depths  of  her  have  gone  the  roots  of  his  strength  and  of 

his  pride, 

That  she  may  nourish  him  well  and  become  his  fulfilment. 
None  may  tear  him  from  the  broad  fields  where  he  is  planted! 

A  woman's  beloved  is  like  the  sun  rising  upon  the  waters,  making 

the  dark  places  light, 

And  like  the  morning  melody  of  the  pine  trees. 
Truly,  she  thinks  the  roses  die  joyously 
If  they  are  crushed  beneath  his  feet. 

A  woman's  beloved  is  to  her  a  great  void  that  she  may  illumine, 
A  great  king  that  she  may  crown,  a  great  soul  that  she  may  redeem. 
And  he  is  also  the  perfecting  of  life, 
Flowers  for  the  altar,  bread  for  the  lips,  wine  for  the  chalice. 

You  that  have  known  passion,  think  not  that  you  have  fathomed 

love. 

It  may  be  that  you  have  never  seen  love's  face. 
For  love   thrusts    aside    storm-clouds  of  passion  to  unveil  the 

heavens, 
And,  in  the  heart  of  a  woman,  only  then  is  love  born. 

To  what  shall  I  liken  a  woman's  beloved, 
And  with  what  shall  I  compare  him  to  do  him  honor? 
He  is  a  flower,  a  song,  a  struggle,  a  wild  storm, 
And,  at  the  last,  he  is  redemption,  power,  joy,  fulfilment  and 
perfect  peace. 


AN  INCANTATION 

O  great  sun  of  heaven,  harm  not  my  love; 

Sear  him  not  with  your  flame,  blind  him  not  with  your  beauty, 

Shine  for  his  pleasure! 


WILLIAM  CARLOS  WILLIAMS  369 

O  gray  rains  of  heaven,  harm  not  my  love; 
Drown  not  in  your  torrent  the  song  of  his  heart, 
Lave  and  caress  him. 

O  swift  winds  of  heaven,  harm  not  my  love; 
Bruise  not  nor  buffet  him  with  your  rough  humor, 
Sing  you  his  prowess! 

O  mighty  triad,  strong  ones  of  heaven, 

Sun,  rain,  and  wind,  be  gentle,  I  charge  you — 

For  your  mad  mood  of  wrath  have  me — I  am  ready — 

But  spare  him,  my  lover,  most  proud  and  most  dear, 

O  sun,  rain  and  wind,  strong  ones  of  heaven! 


William  Carlos  Williams 

SICILIAN  EMIGRANT'S   SONG 
In  New  York  Harbor 

O--eh— lee!    La— la! 

Donna!    Donna! 
Blue  is  the  sky  of  Palermo; 
Blue  is  the  little  bay; 

And  dost  thou  remember  the  orange  and  fig, 
The  lively  sun  and  the  sea  breeze  at  evening? 

Hey— la! 
Donna!    Donna!    Maria! 

O— eh— li!    La— la! 
Donna!    Donna! 
Gray  is  the  sky  of  this  land. 
Gray  and  green  is  the  water. 


370  THE  NEW  POETRY 

I  see  no  trees,  dost  thou?    The  wind 

Is  cold  for  the  big  woman  there  with  the  candle. 

Hey— la! 
Donna!    Donna!    Maria! 

O— eh— li!    O— la! 

Donna!    Donna! 
I  sang  thee  by  the  blue  waters; 
I  sing  thee  here  in  the  gray  dawning. 
Kiss,  for  I  put  down  my  guitar; 
I'll  sing  thee  more  songs  after  the  landing. 

O  Jesu,  I  love  thee! 
Donna!    Donna!    Maria! 


PEACE  ON  EARTH 

The  Archer  is  wake! 

The  Swan  is  flying! 

Gold  against  blue 

An  Arrow  is  lying. 

There  is  hunting  in  heaven — 

Sleep  safe  till  tomorrow. 

The  Bears  are  abroad! 

The  Eagle  is  screaming! 

Gold  against  blue 

Their  eyes  are  gleaming! 

Sleep! 

Sleep  safe  till  tomorrow. 

The  Sisters  lie 

With  their  arms  mtertwining; 

Gold  against  blue 

Their  hair  is  shining! 

The  Serpent  writhes! 

Orion  is  listening! 


WILLIAM  CARLOS  WILLIAMS  371 

Gold  against  blue 

His  sword  is  glistening! 

Sleep! 

There  is  hunting  in  heaven — 

Sleep  safe  till  tomorrow. 

THE  SHADOW 

Soft  as  the  bed  in  the  earth 

Where  a  stone  has  lain — 

So  soft,  so  smooth  and  so  cool, 

Spring  closes  me  in 

With  her  arms  and  her  hands. 

Rich  as  the  smell 
Of  new  earth  on  a  stone, 
That  has  lain,  breathing 
The  damp  through  its  pores- 
Spring  closes  me  in 
With  her  blossomy  hair; 
Brings  dark  to  my  eyes. 

METRIC  FIGURE 

There  is  a  bird  in  the  poplars — 

It  is  the  sun! 

The  leaves  are  little  yellow  fish 

Swimming  in  the  river; 

The  bird  skims  above  them — 

Day  is  on  his  wings. 

Phoenix! 

It  is  he  that  is  making 

The  great  gleam  among  the  poplars. 

It  is  his  singing 

Outshines  the  noise 

Of  leaves  clashing  in  the  wind. 


372  THE  NEW  POETRY 


SUB  TERRA 

Where  shall  I  find  you — 
You,  my  grotesque  fellows 
That  I  seek  everywhere 
To  make  up  my  band? 
None,  not  one 

With  the  earthy  tastes  I  require: 
The  burrowing  pride  that  rises 
Subtly  as  on  a  bush  in  May. 

Where  are  you  this  day — 

You,  my  seven-year  locusts 

With  cased  wings? 

Ah,  my  beauties,  how  I  long! 

That  harvest 

That  shall  be  your  advent — 

Thrusting  up  through  the  grass, 

Up  under  the  weeds, 

Answering  me — 

That  shall  be  satisfying! 

The  light  shall  leap  and  snap 

That  day  as  with  a  million  lashes! 

Oh,  I  have  you! 

Yes,  you  are  about  me  in  a  sense, 

Playing  under  the  blue  pools 

That  are  my  windows. 

But  they  shut  you  out  still 

There  in  the  half  light— 

For  the  simple  truth  is 

That  though  I  see  you  clear  enough 

You  are  not  there. 

It  is  not  that — it  is  you, 
You  I  want,  my  companions! 


WILLIAM  CARLOS  WILLIAMS  373 

God !  if  I  could  only  fathom 

The  guts  of  shadows! — 

You  to  come  with  me 

Poking  into  negro  houses 

With  their  gloom  and  smell! 

In  among  children 

Leaping  around  a  dead  dog! 

Mimicking 

Onto  the  lawns  of  the  rich! 

You! 

To  go  with  me  a-tip-toe 

Head  down  under  heaven, 

Nostrils  lipping  the  wind! 

SLOW  MOVEMENT 

All  those  treasures  that  lie  in  the  little  bolted  box  whose  tiny 
space  is 

Mightier  than  the  room  of  the  stars,  being  secret  and  filled  with 
dreams: 

All  those  treasures — I  hold  them  in  my  hand — are  straining  con- 
tinually 

Against  the  sides  and  the  lid  and  the  two  ends  of  the  little  box  in 
which  I  guard  them; 

Crying  that  there  is  no  sun  come  among  them  this  great  while 
and  that  they  weary  of  shining; 

Calling  me  to  fold  back  the  lid  of  the  little  box  and  to  give  them 
sleep  finally. 

But  the  night  I  am  hiding  from  them,  dear  friend,  is  far  more 

desperate  than  their  night! 
And  so  I  take  pity  on  them  and  pretend  to  have  lost  the  key  to 

the  little  house  of  my  treasures; 
For  they  would  die  of  weariness  were  I  to  open  it,  and  not  be 

merely  faint  and  sleepy 
As  they  are  now. 


374  THE  NEW  POETRY 


POSTLUDE 

Now  that  I  have  cooled  to  you 

Let  there  be  gold  of  tarnished  masonry, 

Temples  soothed  by  the  sun  to  ruin 

That  sleep  utterly. 

Give  me  hand  for  the  dances, 

Ripples  at  Philae,  in  and  out, 

And  lips,  my  Lesbian, 

Wall  flowers  that  once  were  flame. 

Your  hair  is  my  Carthage 
And  my  arms  the  bow, 
And  our  words  arrows 
To  shoot  the  stars 
Who  from  that  misty  sea 
Swarm  to  destroy  us. 

But  you  there  beside  me — 
Oh,  how  shall  I  defy  you, 
Who  wound  me  in  the  night 
With  breasts  shining 
Like  Venus  and  like  Mars? 
The  night  that  is  shouting  Jason 
When  the  loud  eaves  rattle 
As  with  waves  above  me 
Blue  at  the  prow  of  my  desire. 


CHARLES  ERSKINE  SCOTT  WOOD  375 

Charles  Erskine  Scott  Wood 

THE  POET  IN  THE  DESERT 

Extracts  from  the  Prologue 

I  have  come  into  the  Desert  because  my  soul  is  athirst  as  the 

Desert  is  athirst; 

My  soul  which  is  the  soul  of  all;  universal,  not  different. 
We  are  athirst  for  the  waters  which  make  beautiful  the  path 
And  entice  the  grass,  the  willows  and  poplars, 
So  that  in  the  heat  of  the  day  we  may  lie  in  a  cool  shadow, 
Soothed  as  by  the  hands  of  quiet  women,  listening  to  the  discourse 

of  running  waters  as  the  voices  of  women,  exchanging  the 

confidences  of  love. 

The  mountains  afar  girdle  the  Desert  as  a  zone  of  amethyst; 

Pale,  translucent  walls  of  opal, 

Girdling  the  Desert  as  Life  is  girt  by  Eternity. 

They  lift  their  heads  high  above  our  tribulation 

Into  the  azure  vault  of  Time; 

Theirs  are  the  airy  castles  which  are  set  upon  foundations  of 

sapphire. 

My  soul  goes  out  to  them  as  the  bird  to  her  secret  nest. 
They  are  the  abode  of  peace. 

The  flowers  bloom  hi  the  Desert  joyously — 

They  do  not  weary  themselves  with  questioning; 

They  are  careless  whether  they  be  seen,  or  praised. 

They  blossom  unto  life  perfectly  and  unto  death  perfectly,  leaving 

nothing  unsaid. 

They  spread  a  voluptuous  carpet  for  the  feet  of  the  Wind 
And  to  the  frolic  Breezes  which  overleap  them,  they  whisper: 
"Stay  a  moment,  Brother;  plunder  us  of  our  passion; 
Our  day  is  short,  but  our  beauty  is  eternal." 


376  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Never  have  I  found  a  place,  or  a  season,  without  beauty. 

Neither  the  sea,  where  the  white  stallions  champ  their  bits  and 
rear  against  their  bridles, 

Nor  the  Desert,  bride  of  the  Sun,  which  sits  scornful,  apart, 

Like  an  unwooed  princess,  careless,  indifferent. 

She  spreads  her  garments,  wonderful  beyond  estimation, 

And  embroiders  continually  her  mantle. 

She  is  a  queen,  seated  on  a  throne  of  gold 

In  the  Hall  of  Silence. 

She  insists  upon  humility. 

She  insists  upon  meditation. 

She  insists  that  the  soul  be  free. 

She  requires  an  answer. 

She  demands  the  final  reply  to  thoughts  which  cannot  be  answered. 

She  lights  the  sun  for  a  torch 

And  sets  up  the  great  cliffs  as  sentinels: 

The  morning  and  the  evening  are  curtains  before  her  chambers. 

She  displays  the  stars  as  her  coronet. 

She  is  cruel  and  invites  victims, 

Restlessly  moving  her  wrists  and  ankles, 

Which  are  loaded  with  sapphires. 

Her  brown  breasts  flash  with  opals. 

She  slays  those  who  fear  her, 

But  runs  her  hand  lovingly  over  the  brow  of  those  who  know  her, 

Soothing  with  a  voluptuous  caress. 

She  is  a  courtesan,  wearing  jewels, 

Enticing,  smiling  a  bold  smile; 

Adjusting  her  brilliant  raiment  negligently, 

Lying  brooding  upon  her  floor  which  is  richly  carpeted; 

Her  brown  thighs  beautiful  and  naked. 

She  toys  with  the  dazzelry  of  her  diadems, 

Smiling  inscrutably. 

She  is  a  nun,  withdrawing  behind  her  veil; 

Gray,  subdued,  silent,  mysterious,  meditative;  unapproachable. 

She  is  fair  as  a  goddess  sitting  beneath  a  flowering  peach-tree,  be- 
side a  clear  river. 


EDITH  WYATT  377 

Her  body  is  tawny  with  the  eagerness  of  the  Sun 

And  her  eyes  are  like  pools  which  shine  in  deep  canons. 

She  is  beautiful  as  a  swart  woman,  with  opals  at  her  throat, 

Rubies  on  her  wrists  and  topaz  about  her  ankles. 

Her  breasts  are  like  the  evening  and  the  day  stars; 

She  sits  upon  her  throne  of  light,  proud  and  silent,  indifferent  to 

her  wooers. 
The  Sun  is  her  servitor,  the  Stars  are  her  attendants,  running 

before  her. 

She  sings  a  song  unto  her  own  ears,  solitary,  but  it  is  sufficient — 
It  is  the  song  of  her  being.    Oh,  if  I  may  sing  the  song  of  my  being 

it  will  be  sufficient. 

She  is  like  a  jeweled  dancer,  dancing  upon  a  pavement  of  gold; 
Dazzling,  so  that  the  eyes  must  be  shaded. 
She  wears  the  stars  upon  her  bosom  and  braids  her  hair  with  the 

constellations. 

I  know  the  Desert  is  beautiful,  for  I  have  lain  in  her  arms  and  she 

has  kissed  me. 

I  have  come  to  her,  that  I  may  know  freedom; 
That  I  may  lie  upon  the  breast  of  the  Mother  and  breathe  the  air 

of  primal  conditions. 

I  have  come  out  from  the  haunts  of  men; 
From  the  struggle  of  wolves  upon  a  carcass, 
To  be  melted  in  Creation's  crucible  and  be  made  clean; 
To  know  that  the  law  of  Nature  is  freedom. 


Edith  Wyatt 

ON  THE  GREAT  PLATEAU 

In  the  Santa  Clara  Valley,  far  away  and  far  away, 
Cool-breathed  waters  dip  and  dally,  linger  towards  another  day- 
Far  and  far  away — far  away. 


378  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Slow  their  floating  step,  but  tireless,  terraced  down  the  great 

Plateau. 

Towards  our  ways  of  steam  and  wireless,  silver-paced  the  brook- 
beds  go. 

Past  the  ladder-walled  Pueblos,  past  the  orchards,  pear  and  quince, 
Where  the  back-locked  river's  ebb  flows,  miles  and  miles  the  valley 

glints, 
Shining  backwards,  singing  downwards,  towards  horizons  blue 

and  bay. 

All  the  roofs  the  roads  ensconce  so  dream  of  visions  far  away — 
Santa  Cruz  and  Ildefonso,  Santa  Clara,  Santa  Fe. 
Ancient,  sacred  fears  and  faiths,  ancient,  sacred  faiths  and  fears — 
Some  were  real,  some  were  wraiths — Indian,  Franciscan  years, 
Built  the  Khivas,  swung  the  bells;  while  the  wind  sang  plain  and 

free, 

"Turn  your  eyes  from  visioned  hells! — look  as  far  as  you  can  see! " 
In  the  Santa  Clara  Valley,  far  away  and  far  away, 
Dying  dreams  divide  and  dally,  crystal-terraced  waters  sally — 
Linger  towards  another  day,  far  and  far  away — far  away. 

As  you  follow  where  you  find  them,  up  along  the  high  Plateau, 
In  the  hollows  left  behind  them  Spanish  chapels  fade  below — 
Shaded  court  and  low  corrals.    In  the  vale  the  goat-herd  browses. 
Hollyhocks  are  seneschals  by  the  little  buff-walled  houses. 
Over  grassy  swale  and  alley  have  you  ever  seen  it  so — 
Up  the  Santa  Clara  Valley,  riding  on  the  Great  Plateau? 
Past  the  ladder- walled  Pueblos,  past  the  orchards,  pear  and  quince, 
Where  the  trenched  waters'  ebb  flows,  miles  and  miles  the  valley 

glints, 
Shining  backwards,  singing  downwards  towards  horizons  blue  and 

bay. 

All  the  haunts  the  bluffs  ensconce  so  breathe  of  visions  far  away, 
As  you  ride  near  Ildefonso  back  again  to  Santa  Fe. 
Pecos,  mellow  with  the  years,  tall-walled  Taos — who  can  know 
Half  the  storied  faiths  and  fears  haunting  green  New  Mexico? 
Only  from  her  open  places  down  arroyos  blue  and  bay, 


EDITH  WYATT  379 

One  wild  grace  of  many  graces  dallies  towards  another  day. 
Where  her  yellow  tufa  crumbles,  something  stars  and  grasses  know, 
Something  true,  that  crowns  and  humbles,  shimmers  from  the 

Great  Plateau: 

Blows  where  cool-paced  waters  dally  from  the  stillness  of  Puye, 
Down  the  Santa  Clara  Valley  through  the  world  from  far  away — 
Far  and  far  away — far  away. 

SUMMER  HAIL 

Once  the  heavens'  gabled  door 

Opened:  down  a  stabled  floor, 

Down  the  thunders,  something  galloped  far  and  wide, 

Glancing  far  and  fleet 

Down  the  silver  street — 

And  I  knew  of  nothing,  nothing  else  beside. 
Pitty  patty  poll- 
Shoe  the  wild  colt! 
Here  a  nail!    There  a  nail! 
Pitty  patty  poll! 

Good  and  badness,  die  away. 

Strength  and  swiftness  down  the  day, 

Dapple  happy  down  my  glancing  silver  street! 

Oh,  the  touch  of  summer  cold! — 

Beauty  swinging  quick  and  bold, 

Dipping,  dappling  where  the  distant  roof-tops  meet! 
Pitty  patty  poll- 
Shoe  the  wild  coltl 

Listen,  dusty  care: 

Through  a  magic  air, 

Once  I  watched  the  way  of  perfect  splendor  ride, 

Swishing  far  and  gray, 

Buoyant  and  gay — 

And  I  knew  of  nothing,  nothing  else  beside. 


380  THE  NEW  POETRY 

Good  and  badness,  go  your  ways, 

Vanish  far  and  fleet. 

Strength  and  swiftness  run  my  days, 

Down  my  silver  street. 

Little  care,  forevermore 

Be  you  lesser  than  before. 

Mighty  frozen  rain, 

Come!  oh,  come  again! 

Let  the  heavens'  door  be  rended 

With  the  touch  of  summer  cold — 

Dappling  hoof -beats  clatter  splendid, 

Infinitely  gay  and  bold! 

Pitty  patty  poll- 
Shoe  the  wild  colt! 
Here  a  nail  and  there  a  nail! 
Pitty  patty  polt! 

Once  the  heavens'  gabled  door 

Opened:  down  the  stabled  floor, 

Down  the  thunders  something  galloped  wide  and  far; 

Something  dappled  far  and  fleet, 

Glancing  down  my  silver  street, 

And  I  saw  the  ways  of  life  just  as  they  are. 

Pitty  patty  polt— 

Shoe  the  wild  colt! 

Here  a  nail!    There  a  nail! 

Pitty  patty  polt! 


TO  F.  W. 

You  are  my  companion 
Down  the  silver  road, 
Still  and  many-changing, 
Infinitely  changing. 
You  are  my  companion. 


EDITH  WYATT  381 

Something  sings  in  lives — 
Days  of  walking  on  and  on, 
Deep  beyond  all  singing, 
Wonderful  past  singing. 

Wonderful  our  road, 
Long  and  many-changing, 
Infinitely  changing. 
This,  more  wonderful — 
We  are  here  together, 
You  and  I  together, 
I  am  your  companion; 
You  are  my  companion, 
My  own,  true  companion. 

Let  the  road-side  fade: 
Morning  on  the  mountain-top, 
Hours  along  the  valley, 
Days  of  walking  on  and  on, 
Pulse  away  in  silence, 
In  eternal  silence. 
Let  the  world  all  fade, 
Break  and  pass  away. 
Yet  will  this  remain, 
Deep  beyond  all  singing, 
My  own  true  companion, 
Beautiful  past  singing: 
We  were  here  together — 
On  this  earth  together; 
I  was  your  companion, 
You  were  my  companion, 
My  own  true  companion. 


382  THE  NEW  POETRY 


A  CITY  AFTERNOON 

Green  afternoon  serene  and  bright,  along  my  street  you  sail  away 
Sun-dappled  like   a    ship  of  light   that  glints  upon  a  rippled 

bay. 
Afar,  freight-engines  call  and  toll;  the  sprays  flash  on  the  fragrant 

grass; 
The  children  and  the  nurses  stroll;  the  charging  motors  plunge 

and  pass. 

Invisibly  the  shadows  grow,  empurpling  in  a  rising  tide 
The  walks  where  light-gowned  women  go,  white  curb,  gray  asphalt 

iris-dyed. 

A  jolting  trolley  shrills  afar;  nasturtiums  blow,  and  ivy  vines; 
Wet  scents  of  turf  and  black-smoothed  tar  float  down  the  roof- 
trees'  vergent  lines. 
Where  will  you  go,  my  afternoon,  that  glints  so  still  and  swift 

away, 
Blue-shaded  like  a  ship  of  light  bound  outward  from  a  wimpled 

bay? 
Oh — thrilling,  pulsing,  dark  and  bright,  shall  you,  your  work, 

your  pain,  your  mirth, 

Fly  into  the  immortal  night  and  silence  of  our  mother  earth? 
She  bore  all  Eden's  green  and  dew,  and  Persia's  scented  wine  and 

rose, 
And,  flowering  white  against  the  blue,  acanthus  leaf  and  marbled 

pose. 
And  deep  the  Maenad's  choric  dance,  Crusader's  cross,  and  heathen 

crest 
Lie  sunk  with  rose  and  song  and  lance  all  veiled  and  vanished  in 

her  breast. 

And  all  those  afternoons  once  danced  and  sparkled  in  the  sapphire 

light 
And  iris  shade  as  you  have  glanced,  green  afternoon,  in  vibrant 

flight. 


EDITH  WYATT  383 

As,  down  dim  vistas,  echoing,  dead  afternoons  entreat  our  days, 
What  breath  of  beauty  will  you  sing  to  souls  unseen  and  unknown 

ways? 

How  close  and  how  unanswering,  green  afternoon,  you  pulse  away, 
So  little  and  so  great  a  thing — deep  towards  the  bourne  of  every 

day. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

The  editors  desire  to  express  their  thanks  to  the  poets  represented 
in  this  anthology;  also  to  the  publishers  of  books  marked  with  an 
asterisk  (*),  and  to  the  editors  and  publishers  of  magazines  listed  below, 
for  their  very  kind  permission  to  use  the  poems  here  reprinted. 

The  endeavor  has  been  to  list  below  all  the  books  of  verse,  or  books 
about  poetry,  thus  far  printed  by  the  poets  quoted  in  this  anthology; 
and  then  to  refer  the  reader  to  magazines  which  first  published  the 
quoted  poems,  and  to  anthologies  which  have  included  them.  It  has 
been  impossible,  however,  to  note  in  every  case  the  magazine  in  which 
a  poem  was  first  printed,  the  records  not  being  included  in  the  volumes 
from  which  they  are  taken;  but  we  have  tried  to  credit  especially  certain 
periodicals  which  make  a  specialty  of  this  subject. 


CONRAD  AIKEN 

Earth  Triumphant Macmillan  Co.,  New  York,  1914 

*  Turns  and  Movies Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  Boston,  1916 

The  Jig  of  Forslin Four  Seas  Co.,  Boston,  1916 

In  Poetry:  Sept.,  1915  (Vol.  VI). 

ZOE  AKINS 

*  Interpretations Grant  Richards,  London,  1912 

*  Interpretations Mitchell  Kennerley,  New  York,  1914 

In  Poetry:  Jan.,  1915  (Vol.  V). 

RICHARD  ALDINGTON 

*  Images Poetry  Book  Shop,  London,  1915 

*  Images Four  Seas  Co.,  Boston,  1916 

In  Des  Imagistes Albert  &  Chas.  Boni,  New  York,  1914 

In  Some  Imagist  Poets Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1915  &  1916 

In  Poetry:  Jan.,  1914  (Vol.  Ill),  Oct.,  1915  (Vol.  VII),  Oct.,  1912  (Vol.  I). 

385 


386  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

MARY  ALDIS 

*  Flashlights Duffield  &  Co.,  New  York,  1916 

In  Others:  An  Anthology  of  the  New  Verse.  Albert  A.  Knopf,  N.  Y.,  1916 

WALTER  CONRAD  ARENSBERG 

*  Idols Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  Boston,  1916 

In  An  Anthology  of  Magazine  Verse  . . .  Gomme  &  Marshall,  N.  Y.,  1915 
In  Others:  An  Anthology  of  the  New  Verse.  Albert  A.  Knopf,  N.  Y.,  1916 

WILTON  AGNEW  BARRETT 
In  Poetry:  Oct.,  1915  (Vol.  VII). 

JOSEPH  WARREN  BEACH 

Sonnets  of  the  Head  and  Heart Richard  G.  Badger,  Boston,  1903 

In  Poetry:  May,  1915  (Vol.  VI). 

In  Anthology  of  Magazine  Verse Gomme  &  Marshall,  N.  Y.,  1915 

WILLIAM  ROSE  BENfiT 

Merchants  from  Cathay Century  Co.,  New  York,  1913 

*  The  Falconer  of  God  . .  Yale  University  Press,  New  Haven,  Conn.,  1914 
In  Poetry:  June,  1914  (Vol.  IV),  April,  1916  (Vol.  VQI). 

MAXWELL  BODENHEIM 

In  Poetry:  Aug.,  1914  (Vol.  IV). 

In  Others:  Sept.,  1915  (Vol.  I). 

In  Others:  An  Anthology  of  the  New  Verse.  Albert  A.  Knopf,  N.  Y.,  1916 

In  Catholic  Anthology Elkin  Mathews,  London,  1915 

GORDON  BOTTOMLEY 

*  Chambers  of  Imagery:  Series  I-II Elkin  Mathews,  London,  1912 

Laodice  and  Danae Four  Seas  Co.,  Boston,  1916 

In  Georgian  Poetry:  1911-1912 Poetry  Bookshop,  London,  1912 

In  Georgian  Poetry:  1913-1915 Poetry  Bookshop,  London,  1915 

ROLLO  BRITTEN 
In  Poetry:  June,  1913  (Vol.  III). 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  387 

RUPERT  BROOKE 

*  The  Collected  Poems  of  Rupert  Brooke 

John  Lane  Co.,  London  and  N.  Y.,  1915 
In  Poetry:  Oct.,  1914  (Vol.  V),  April,  1915  (Vol.  VI). 

In  New  Numbers * .  .Privately  printed,  London,  1914-1915 

In  Georgian  Poetry:  1911-1912 Poetry  Bookshop,  London,  1912 

In  Georgian  Poetry:  1913-1915 Poetry  Bookshop,  London,  1915 

WITTER  BYNNER 

An  Ode  to  Harvard  and  Other  Poems 

Small,  Maynard  &  Co.,  Boston,  1907 

Tiger Mitchell  Kennerley,  1913 

The  Little  King Mitchell  Kennerley,  1914 

*  The  New  World Mitchell  Kennerley,  1915 

Iphigenia  in  Tauris Mitchell  Kennerley,  1916 

In  Poetry:  April,  1914  (Vol.  IV),  Feb.,  1913  (Vol.  I). 

In  Anthology  of  Magazine  Verse Gomme  &  Marshall,  N.  Y.,  1915 

JOSEPH   CAMPBELL 

The  Garden  of  the  Bees Erskine  Mayne,  Belfast,  1905 

The  Rushlight Maunsel  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  Dublin,  1906 

The  Gilly  of  Christ Maunsel,  1907 

The  Man-Child Loch  Press,  London,  1907 

The  Mountainy-Singer Maunsel,  1909 

Mearing  Stones Maunsel,  1911 

*  Irishry Maunsel,  1913 

In  Poetry:  March,  1916  (Vol.  VII). 

NANCY  CAMPBELL 

The  Little  People Arthur  Humphreys,  London,  1910 

Agnus  Dei Maunsel,  Dublin,  1912 

In  Poetry:  Aug.,  1915  (Vol.  VI). 

SKIPWITH  CANNfiLL 

In  Poetry:  Sept.,  1914  (Vol.  IV). 

In  Others:  An  Anthology  of  the  New  Verse.  Albert  A.  Knopf,  N.  Y.,  1916 


388  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

WILLA  SIBERT  GATHER 

April  Twilights Richard  G.  Badger,  1903 

In  McClure's  Magazine:  June,  1909,  Vol.  33;  June,  1912,  Vol.  39. 

PADRAIC  COLUM 

Wild  Earth Maunsel,  Dublin,  1910  (dr.) 

*  Broad  Street  Ballads Norman  Remington  Co.,  Baltimore,  1915 

In  Poetry:  July,  1915  (Vol.  VI),  March,  1914  (Vol.  HI). 

In  Others:  Dec.,  1915  (Vol.  I). 

GRACE  HAZARD  CONKLING 

*  Afternoons  of  April Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1915 

In  Poetry:  Nov.,  1915  (Vol.  VII). 

In  Anthology  of  Magazine  Verse Gomme  &  Marshall,  N.  Y.,  1915 

ALICE  CORBIN  (Mrs.  Wm.  P.  Henderson) 

*The  Spinning  Woman  of  the  Sky 

Ralph  Fletcher  Seymour,  Chicago,  1914 

In  Poetry:  Dec.,  1914  (Vol.  V),  Jan.,  1916  (Vol.  VII),  Dec.,  1912  (Vol.  I). 
In  Catholic  Anthology Elkin  Mathews,  London,  1915 

ADELAIDE  CRAPSEY 

*  Verse The  Manas  Press,  Rochester,  N.  Y.,  1915 

In  Others:  March,  1916  (Vol.  II). 

In  Others:  An  Anthology  of  the  New  Verse.  Albert  A.  Knopf,  N.  Y.,  1916 

H.  D.  (Mrs.  Richard  Aldington) 

*  Sea-garden:  Imagist  Poems Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1916 

In  Poetry:  Jan.,  1913  (Vol.  I),  March,  1915  (Vol.  V). 

In  Des  Imagistes Albert  &  Chas.  Boni,  New  York,  1914 

In  Some  Imagist  Poets Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1915 

In  Some  Imagist  Poets Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1916 

MARY  CAROLYN  DAV1ES 

In  Others:  July,  1915  (Vol.  II). 

In  Others:  An  Anthology  of  the  New  Verse.  Albert  A.  Knopf,  N.  Y.,  1916 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  389 

FANNIE  STEARNS  DAVIS  (Mrs.  Augustus  McK.  Gifford) 

Myself  and  I Macmillan  Co.,  1914 

Crack  O'Dawn Macmillan  Co.,  1915 

In  Poetry:  March,  1913  (Vol.  I). 

In  Atlantic  Monthly:  Jan.,  1913  (Vol.  CXI). 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 

Songs  of  Childhood Longmans,  Green  &  Co.,  London,  1902 

Poems John  Murray,  London,  1906 

A  Child's  Day Constable  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  London,  1912 

Peacock  Pie Constable  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  1913 

*  The  Listeners Constable  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  1912 

*  The  Listeners Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  New  York,  1915 

In  Georgian  Poetry:  1911-1912.  . .  .The  Poetry  Bookshop,  London,  1914 
In  Georgian  Poetry:  1913-1915.  .  .  .The  Poetry  Bookshop,  London,  1915 

LEE  WILSON  DODD 

A  Modern  Alchemist Richard  G.  Badger,  Boston,  1906 

*  The  Middle  Miles Yale  University  Press,  1915 

In  Poetry:  Jan.,  1915  (Vol.  V). 

JOHN  DRINKWATER 

Poems  of  Men  and  Hours David  Nutt,  London,  1911 

Poems  of  Love  and  Earth David  Nutt,  1912 

Cophetua David  Nutt,  1912 

Cromwell  and  Other  Poems David  Nutt,  1913 

Rebellion David  Nutt,  1914 

*  Swords  and  Ploughshares Sidgwick  &  Jackson,  London,  1915 

The  Storm Privately  Printed,  1915 

In  Poetry:  Dec.,  1915  (Vol.  VII). 

In  Georgian  Poetry:  1911-1912 Poetry  Book  Shop,  London,  1914 

In  Georgian  Poetry:  1913-1915 Poetry  Book  Shop,  London,  1915 

LOUISE  DRISCOLL 
In  Poetry:  Nov.,  1914  (Vol.  V). 

DOROTHY  DUDLEY  (Mrs.  Henry  B.  Harvey) 
In  Poetry:  June,  1915  (Vol.  VI). 


390  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

HELEN  DUDLEY 
In  Poetry:  Oct.,  1912  (Vol.  I),  Aug.,  1914  (Vol.  IV). 

MAX  EASTMAN 

*  Child  of  the  Amazons  and  Other  Poems 

Mitchell  Kennerley,  N.  Y.,  1913 
The  Enjoyment  of  Poetry Chas.  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York,  1913 

T.  S.  ELIOT 

In  Others:  Sept.,  1915  (Vol.  I).  ~ 

In  Others:  An  Anthology  of  the  New  Verse.  Albert  A.  Knopf,  N.  Y.,  1916 

In  Catholic  Anthology Elkin  Mathews,  London,  1915 

ARTHUR  DAVISON  FICKE 

From  the  Isles Samurai  Press,  Cranleigh  and  London,  1907 

The  Happy  Princess  and  Other  Poems ....  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.,  1907 

The  Earth  Passion Samurai  Press,  1908 

The  Breaking  of  Bonds Mitchell  Kennerley,  1910 

Twelve  Japanese  Painters.  .Ralph  Fletcher  Seymour  Co.,  Chicago,  1913 
Mr.  Faust Mitchell  Kennerley,  1913 

*  Sonnets  of  a  Portrait  Painter Mitchell  Kennerley,  1914 

*  The  Man  on  the  Hilltop Mitchell  Kennerley,  1915 

In  Poetry:  March,  1915  (Vol.  V),  Feb.,  1913  (Vol.  I). 

In  The  Forum:  Aug.,  1914  (Vol.  52). 

JOHN  GOULD  FLETCHER 

Fire  and  Wine Grant  Richards,  London,  1913 

Fool's  Gold Max  Goschen,  Ltd.,  London,  1913 

The  Dominant  City Max  Goschen,  1913 

The  Book  of  Nature Constable  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  London,  1913 

Visions  of  the  Evening Erskine  McDonald,  London,  1913 

*  Irradiations Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1916 

*  Goblins  and  Pagodas Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1916 

In  Poetry:  Dec.,  1913  (Vol.  Ill),  March,  1916  (Vol.  VI),  Sept.,  1914 

(Vol.  IV). 

In  Some  Imagist  Poets Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1915 

In  Some  Imagist  Poets Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1915 

In  Anthology  of  Magazine  Verse Gomme  &  Marshall,  N.  Y.,  1915 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  391 

F.  S.  FLINT 

In  the  Net  of  the  Stars Elkin  Mathews,  London,  1909 

*  Cadences The  Poetry  Bookshop,  London,  1915 

The  Modella  of  Decimus  Magnus  Ansonius  .  .The  Egoist,  London,  1916 
Philip  II  (translated  from  the  French  of  Emile  Verhaeren) 

Constable  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  1916 
The  Love  Poems  of  Emile  Verhaeren  (translated  from  French) 

Constable  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  1916 
In  Poetry:  July,  1913  (Vol.  II). 

In  Des  Imagistes Albert  &  Chas.  Boni,  New  York,  1914 

In  Some  Imagist  Poets Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1915 

In  Some  Imagist  Poets Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1916 

MOIREEN  FOX 

In  Poetry:  March,  1915  (Vol.  V). 

FLORENCE  KIPER  FRANK 

Cinderella Dramatic  Publ.  Co.,  1913 

*  The  Jew  to  Jesus  and  Other  Poems Mitchell  Kennerley,  1915 

In  Poetry:  Nov.,  1914  (Vol.  V). 

ROBERT  FROST 

*  A  Boy's  Will David  Nutt,  London,  1913 

*  A  Boy's  WiU Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  N.  Y.,  1915 

*  North  of  Boston David  Nutt,  London,  1914 

*  North  of  Boston Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  N.  Y.,  1915 

Mountain  Interval Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  1916 

In  Poetry:  Feb.,  1914  (Vol.  III). 

In  Anthology  of  Magazine  Verse .Gomme  &  Marshall,  N.  Y.,  1915 

HAMLIN  GARLAND 

Prairie  Songs Stone  &  Kimball,  Chicago,  1893 

In  Poetry:  Nov.,  1913  (Vol.  III). 

WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON 

The  Golden  Helm Elkin  Mathews,  London,  1903 

The  Nets  of  Love Elkin  Mathews,  London,  1905 


392  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

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Womenkind Macmillan  Co.,  1912 

*  Borderlands  and  Thoroughfares. .  .. Macmillan  Co.,  1914 

*  Battle  and  Other  Poems Macmillan  Co.,  1916 

Daily  Bread Macmillan  Co.,  1916 

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George  D.  Sproul,  N.  Y.,  1903 
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The  Village  Magazine Privately  printed,  Springfield,  111.,  1912 

*  General  William  Booth  Enters  into  Heaven  and  Other  Poems 

Mitchell  Kennerley,  1913 

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*  The  Congo  and  Other  Poems Macmillan  Co.,  1915 

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*  Sword  Blades  and  Poppy  Seed Macmillan  Co.,  1914 

Men,  Women  and  Ghosts Macmillan  Co.,  1916 

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Uriel  and  Other  Poems Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1912 

The  Present  Hour Macmillan  Co.,  1914 

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The  Everlasting  Mercy .Sidgwick  &  Jackson,  London,  1911 

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The  Everlasting  Mercy  and  the  Widow  in  the  Bye  Street 

Macmillan  Co.,  N.  Y.,  1912 
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Dauber Wm.  Heinemann,  London,  1914 

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In  Catholic  Anthology Elkin  Mathews,  London,  1915 

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HARRIET  MONROE 

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Valeria  and  Other  Poems A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co.,  Chicago,  1893 

Columbian  Ode W.  Irving  Way  &  Co.,  Chicago,  1893 

Decorations  by  Will.  H.  Bradley. 
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YONE  NOGUCHI 

From  the  Eastern  Sea Privately  printed,  London,  1906 

From  the  Eastern  Sea Elkin  Mathews,  London,  1910 

From  the  Eastern  Sea The  Japan  Press,  Tokio,  1910 

*  The  Pilgrimage Elkin  Mathews,  London,  1912 

*  The  Pilgrimage Mitchell  Kennerley,  New  York,  1912 

Spirit  of  Japanese  Poetry E.  P.  Button  &  Co.,  New  York,  1914 

GRACE  FALLOW  NORTON 

Little  Gray  Songs  from  St.  Joseph's Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1912 

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Fortune  and  Men's  Eyes Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1909 

*  The  Singing  Man Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1911 

The  Piper Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1911 

The  Wolf  of  Gubbio Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1914 

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*  Ripostes Stephen  Swift  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  1912 

Sonnets  and  Ballate  of  Guido  Cavalcanti Stephen  Swift  &  Co.,  1912 

*  Cathay Elkin  Mathews,  1912 

*  Poems  (Vols.  I-II)  Elkin  Mathews,  1915 

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The  Quiet  Singer Mitchell  Kennerley,  1908 

Manhattan Mitchell  Kennerley,  1909 

Youth Mitchell  Kennerley,  1910 

*  Beyond  the  Stars  and  Other  Poems Mitchell  Kennerley,  1912 

To-day  and  To-morrow Geo.  H.  Doran  Co.,  1916 

In  Poetry:  Nov.,  1912  (Vol.  I). 

In  Anthology  of  Magazine  Verse Gomme  &  Marshall,  N.  Y.,  1915 

LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 

The  Young  Quire  (out  of  print) The  Moods  Publishing  Co.,  1911 

First  Love Sherman  French  &  Co.,  1911 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  403 

*  Challenge The  Century.  Co.,  New  York,  1914 

"...  and  Other  Poets" Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  New  York,  1916 

In  Anthology  of  Magazine  Verse Gomme  &  Marshall,  N.  Y.,  1915 

ALLEN  UPWARD 
In  Poetry:  Sept.,  1913  (Vol.  II). 

JOHN  HALL  WHEELOCK 

The  Human  Fantasy Sherman  French  &  Co.,  Boston,  1911 

*  The  Beloved  Adventure Sherman  French  &  Co.,  1912 

*  Love  and  Liberation Sherman  French  &  Co.,  1913 

In  Poetry:  Aug.,  1913  (Vol.  II),  Nov.,  1915  (Vol.  VII). 

HERVEY  WHITE 

New  Songs  for  Old Maverick  Press,  Woodstock,  N.  Y.,  1910 

*  A  Ship  of  Souls Maverick  Press,  1910 

In  an  Old  Man's  Garden Maverick  Press,  1910 

The  Adventures  of  Young  Maverick Maverick  Press,  1911 

MARGARET  WIDDEMER 

*  The  Factories  with  Other  Lyrics 

John  C.  Winston  Co.,  Philadelphia,  1915 

In  Poetry:  Nov.,  1912  (Vol.  I),  Aug.,  1913  (Vol.  II);  Feb.,  1915  (Vol.  V). 
In  Anthology  of  Magazine  Verse Gomme  &  Marshall,  N.  Y.,  1915 

FLORENCE  WILKINSON  (Mrs.  Wilfrid  Muir  Evans) 

*  The  Far  Country McClure  Phillips  &  Co.,  New  York,  1906 

*  The  Ride  Home Houghton  Mifflih  Co.,  1916 

In  Poetry:  Dec.,  1913  (Vol.  Ill),  Jan.,  1916  (Vol.  VII). 

MARGUERITE  WILKINSON 

*  In  Vivid  Gardens Sherman  French  &  Co.,  Boston,  1911 

By  a  Western  Wayside Privately  printed,  1913 

Mars,  a  Modern  Morality  Play Privately  printed,  1915 


404  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

WILLIAM  CARLOS  WILLIAMS 

The  Tempers Elkin  Mathews,  London,  1913 

In  Poetry:  June,  1913  (Vol.  II),  May,  1915  (Vol.  VI). 

In  Others:  An  Anthology  of  New  Verse. . .  .Albert  A.  Knopf,  N.  Y.,  1916 

CHARLES  ERSKINE  SCOTT  WOOD 

The  Masque  of  Love Walter  Hill,  Chicago,  1904 

*  The  Poet  in  the  Desert Privately  printed,  Portland,  Ore.,  1915 

EDITH  WYATT 

In  Poetry:  Jan.,  1915  (Vol.  V). 

In  McClure's  Magazine:  Aug.,  1911. 


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